Seven Guns for Naraka Prime
by Storm Archon
Summary: Facing ruin at the hands of armed raiders, a colony on the frontier of known space turns to hired mercenaries for help. Seven unlikely warriors answer the call, but soon find themselves facing something far more dangerous than simple human killers.
1. Under the Fading Sky

Legal Disclaimer: This story is a work of fanfiction, written purely for fun and for creative exercise, not for profit. The setting and non-human characters are the property of 20th Century Fox, the plot is from _The Seven Samurai_ by Akira Kurosawa (and other tributes such as _The Magnificent Seven_ and _Battle Beyond the Stars_), and what little remains is all mine, baby. For violence, language and mature subject matter, this story has been voluntarily rated M for My God What Else Could It Possibly Be For A Freaking Aliens Setting.

CHAPTER 1: UNDER THE FADING SKY

_**Planet Sanjiva, primary satellite of Omega Cygni a.k.a. "Naraka" in the Cygnus Star Region  
Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," Keller-Bravo canyon at 70 km. inside community border  
Company personnel aerovehicle: Registry 7A24-OCS1, approaching central colony complex at high speed**_

When you lived with constant fear for a long enough time, there were some aspects of it that you stopped hating, some aspects of dread that you grew used to and could even come to depend on. Anemona Sagan had come to know them fairly intimately, she supposed. She supposed that was a contributing factor to her still being alive, when so many others were gone.

The hoverskiff jolted, its skids bouncing over a ridge in the otherwise flat valley floor. In the driver's seat beside her, Brigid Wulcan cursed and wrestled with the joysticks. At the makeshift gun turret in the back, Wulcan's son Ezra made a half-hearted plea to ease off, while golden-skinned Eve Owan in the other passenger seat went on arguing without missing a beat. Wulcan was driving entirely too fast for comfort, especially in the fading light, but with nightfall imminent, driving uncomfortably was entirely more safe than driving slowly.

"If regional patterns stay consistent, then we can no longer expect any help from the Company whatsoever!" Owan was saying. It was always so odd and endearing when she was riled, to hear logic and precise language being spat out with such passion. "If Sanjiva was of any priority to them, they would have responded long before it got to this state."

"You know she's right," said Wulcan, before Sagan could answer. "They're stringin' us along."

"We don't know that. Every colony's suffering, we're not…" Sagan started tiredly, but Wulcan cut her off.

"There ain't no security force coming, Sagan - they cut their losses and you know it! They hung us out to dry!"

"We don't know that, Brigid. Uma Scheller said she reached somebody with leverage this time, we'll know…"

"Oh fuck Scheller! She's a damn billboard, that's all she is!"

Sanjiva was such a beautiful place. Sagan's parents and grandparents had fought for this world against monstrous extremes of chemistry and temperature, won it back from the elements inch by inch, and transformed it from a barren hellscape to the rugged, primal beauty it was today. It was a world of towering mesas constantly swept by hurricane-strength winds, lined with spiderweb networks of tiny cracks that had come to harbour life and warmth. Threshold Colony had been born in these mile-deep cracks, and it had fallen to Ana Sagan to be its caretaker. And there, in Sagan's hands, it would likely die.

"We'll know where we stand with the Company when we see Scheller tomorrow," she asserted, but it took all her politician's savvy to conceal her own lack of faith in that avenue. "I need to hear all the options before we start any plans. We can't afford to go off half-cocked again, we've lost too many people. I need to hear…"

"Dammit Sagan, we got no more options! You need to get everybody back to the complex and make a stand. It's all we got left!"

"No, that would be premature," Owan spoke up. "We are heavily outgunned. If we attempt a second unified confrontation, they will do the same. And this time they will leave no one alive."

"And mine the fucking isotopes themselves?"

"Actually, some of them must have been miners before the Depression," replied Owan, unfazed. "They might do just that."

"All right people, settle down," said Sagan, steel coming into her voice. "I'm not jury-rigging a plan in the back seat of a hover. Once we know all our options and resources, we can get started on a real plan."

"Yeah, while our people are getting picked off one by one every day," Wulcan retorted. "If we don't move now, we don't stand a chance!"

"Shush and mind your driving. It all comes to nothing if we fly into the side," she said sharply. Sagan had heard enough, and it wasn't anything new. She was also growing increasingly nervous as the darkness loomed and visibility dwindled: she had no wish to be caught outdoors after nightfall, not while speeding through a twisting crevasse, and absolutely not on foot.

Sanjiva's long night was coming quickly, accounting in part for Wulcan's risky piloting, and the almost perfectly even-shaped canyon was already shrouded in looming shadows. Before the skiff's headlamps, the dense primordial growth climbed high up the sides and covered the wide canyon floor racing below, all giant ferns and spongiforms. The only place not swathed in the tall foliage was the shallow central river flowing through this and every canyon, and guide markers were periodically mounted in the middle of the river. These markers provided a small beacon of light every five kilometers along, and they were the only light source besides their own.

"Why is it still so dark?" asked Ezra Wulcan in the back, after several minutes of silence. It was hard to believe he was just fourteen, after all that had happened and everything he'd done, and painful to know that he'd left his boyhood behind so soon. "Haven't we passed the outskirts yet?"

There was a long moment of silence, and then Owan tonelessly said "Yes, we just passed marker bravo-eight."

Sagan hadn't been keeping track, but if Eve Owan said it was bravo-eight, then it was bravo-eight. They were well inside the colony borders now, and they should have passed at least a couple of settlements brightly lit from habitats, workplaces, and harbor platforms built at all heights in the canyon sides. Most everywhere in their vertical community would be bathed in the cheerful light of its buildings and vehicles once Naraka's light had faded, but all Sagan could see was the river and the ferns in the skiff's headlamps.

"Everbody's killed their out-lights," said Wulcan, her voice growing hoarse. "I'm calling in."

Sagan didn't stop her. If the enemy was here in the middle of Threshold, then there was no point in radio silence anyway. The past few months, people had been dousing their lights and hiding if they thought trouble was coming, for what it was worth. There was little point to it if their heat signatures were being tracked from orbit, but frightened colonists with little tactical knowledge tended to act on instinct, and they could hardly be blamed.

Central didn't take long to answer. "Hi Brigid," came Osman Kern's voice from the radio. He sounded tired, on edge. "You all right?"

"We're fine. The Hoffmanns are gone. So what the hell's going on at Central?" Wulcan snapped, ever to the point.

"We… we got visitors. With guns. They want to talk to Sagan. Uh, they're telling me to… they're saying take your time. They… they're happy chatting with the _eight women, three men and two children_ in operations."

"Aedon's there," Sagan said. It wasn't a question. That was how the outlaw leader talked, the way he mixed sardonic humour with veiled threat. God, she couldn't take much more of this. "Tell him we're coming straight away."

"Osman, tell the prancing faggot we'll be there any minute," Wulcan dutifully relayed, and her son gave a half-laugh that was more an expression of shock and anxiety than amusement.

"Ma! That's open-channel, he might hear you!"

"Let him. I don't give a flying fuck anymore." Brigid Wulcan had kept her work-language out of her home and away from her kids, once upon a time. But now, she worked for criminals instead of Weyland-Yutani, her husband and all her sons but her youngest were gone, and a safe and civil home was a thing of the past.

After a time, the lights of the central complex drew near, the main building outwardly resembling a wall of metal built around the base of a small isolated mesa, with rows of observation bubbles and vehicle ports lining the sides. And above, in one of the docking alcoves carved into the side of this tower of stone, the running lights of foreign spacecraft shined down: two large transport shuttles that once served the same company that had founded Threshold, but which were now bristling with weapons aimed at the community below.

x x x x x

_**Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," central colony complex  
Level 3 east: operations and administration section**_

In earlier days, Threshold's operations and administration center had looked as sterile and utilitarian as the command bridge of a starship, with the observation shields closed and lighting kept low, every console lit and updated, every mechanism and containment door well maintained and functional. Now, with a vast living world of fresh air and open space at their doorstep, few Sanjivans chose to stay cooped up in the confines of their grandparents' original home, and those who did had made it quite a different and much more welcoming place.

The man known as Usires Aedon, if indeed that was his name, was strolling about the op center admiring the changes when the chief administrator came in. Sagan watched him as he walked by the row of panels that had once monitored the external air composition, drawing his ungloved hand through the curtain of soft ferns almost covering the instrument bank. The gunmen flanking her made no attempt to get his attention and neither did she.

Aedon was a particularly odd one as space raiders went, foppish and flamboyant at one instant, sadistic and terrifying the next. He made much of his appearance, wearing black leather and purple velvet with a military chestplate and harness under regal robes and cape, like some aristocratic knight of Old Earth outfitted for a modern war. His long raven-black hair was that of a man intimately familiar with the Pro-V vitamin, carefully draped in an elegant-looking style over the disfiguring burns on the side of his face. He was a bizarre and unpredictable package overall, and the Sanjivan colonists had often wondered if they would have been better off with some typical brutish thug.

Sagan scanned the area as she waited, noting that there were four outworlders besides the two escorting her and the ringleader himself. All were carrying hodgepodge firearms and battle gear, and Aedon had his heavy pistol and ridiculous samurai sword. Osman at the comms panel was the only Sanjivan still at a console; Heidi Van Vehmendal and the others were huddling on the observation stage before the guns of the pirates. A chill ran through her and she forced herself not to look at the stage: Van Vehmendal and many of the operations staff were healthy women of child-bearing age, and Kern and the two other men were obvious targets of aggression. She could only hope that none of the outlaws picked them out and decided to have a little fun.

"Madame Director," Aedon finally intoned in that rich deep voice of his, not turning to face her. "Have I mentioned how much I love what you've done with the place?"

"Every time you visit, yes," she answered, carefully keeping her voice neutral and cordial while fear clawed at her throat. "Welcome back to Naraka Prime."

"Oh, I haven't been far," said the pirate commander. He had paused by the wide plexiglass wall that was the first observation window, looking over the framed photographs and colorful children's drawings scattered around the border.

"Every time I see one of those Company conveyer-cloned outfits out there, every flat grey corridor, every empty storage bay, every stonefaced rock-grubber without a dollar in his pocket or a drop in his tank, I get to thinking: 'Why can't this place be more like Sanjiva? Vibrant, lovely, productive Sanjiva… God, I can't wait to hit the high road back to Naraka system.' That's what I get to thinking, Miss Sagan, because there's not an outfit in this cluster that's a better sight than yours."

"Commander, we've been doing our best to meet the quotas you…" Sagan started to say.

"Everywhere I go these days, everywhere I look," Aedon interrupted her as he continued his stroll, "all I see are barren trade stations, mines and industries, grounded ships, washed-out spacers everywhere, all languishing penniless and idle. Where are the defenseless fuel refineries, ill-protected by a starving military? Where are the depots overflowing with goods unable to reach their markets? Where are the clamoring consumers with coffers stuffed with funds on worlds with nothing to buy?"

"A business like mine should be thriving in this extraordinary fuel crisis," he said, and let out a heavy, melodramatic sigh. "Yet I set out, and search, and bring back piss-poor spoils and barely enough ion cells to keep my own ships in space. It seems the days of good hunting are over. Milady, you would weep to see what a sorry state the galaxy is in. We are truly blessed to have a world like this under our feet – by God, I love Sanjiva!"

"My people love this place just as much, don't you boys?" Aedon made a sweeping gesture to his men, and there were some snickers of laughter from the outlaws. The scrawny scar-faced one he called 'Jacek the Jackal' sing-songed "The grass is green and the girls are pretty," and there was more laughter.

"It's a positive shame that I have to pull some associates off for our business out-system," the commander continued. He was by the entrance to Sagan's administration office now, playing with the curtain of glassy fern-resin beads that the Jurewicz family had given to her so long ago. "This sweet air, the blue skies, the living soil underfoot! And the food! Wholesome non-synthesized meals, from produce culled the very same day!"

He leaned over and swiped a waterplum from the snack basket on the coordinator's desk, took a big juicy chomp out of it with a loud crunch and much exaggerated mmm-hmm's. That got more chuckles from his thugs. They were enjoying his theatrics all right, but the Sanjivans were as still as statues. Sagan wondered distantly when was the last time anybody had put anything fresh in that basket.

"Ah, that's the stuff… my whole mouth is tingling," Aedon said, in a low growl of satisfaction. "If I ever see another packet of Nutri-Synth Twelve – what's that swill meant to be, cornbread? – I think I'll drop every damn thing and turn into a farmboy right here. Time on Sanjiva's like shore leave, nobody wants to ship up to the Oscuro and back to the old grind. What a privilege it must be to live here, Madame Director!"

"So, Tiny Tupolev, my man!" Aedon sauntered over to the mountain of muscle that was his planetside lieutenant. "How are you enjoying business on this lovely planet these days, Tiny Tupolev?"

"I'd enjoy it a lot more if there weren't so many empty vaults," Tupolev replied, unsmiling.

"Which brings us to the one little problem in idyllic Sanjiva," said Aedon. He turned and fixed his remaining eye on Sagan, and his voice was suddenly ice-cold and devoid of humor. "Why exactly have I returned to a fuel-producing colony as lush and mineral-laden as this, and found so little refined product?"

For a moment, the colony director was unable to speak. On the observation stage, the female Sanjivans were swiftly clustering around the boy and the two men and shielding them with their bodies; Aedon, in some twisted sense of chivalry, did not personally harm women, but murdered their husbands and sons without hesitation. And everyone in Threshold knew that when they heard that tone of voice from him, gunshots were not far off.

"Commander," Ana Sagan started again, managing to summon a hoarse whisper after clearing her throat several times. "We've been doing our best to meet the quotas you've set for the refineries. But all the shipments have stopped, and Threshold depends on the Company for fresh supplies, equipment and… and personnel. Without outside support… we-we can't keep up normal production unless we can..."

"We don't have enough people."

Osman Kern spoke up as she faltered. Sagan's jaw dropped as she stared at him. _Osman, no!_ she tried to say. _Don't do it!_

Kern couldn't stand it anymore, couldn't stand to see his boss and friend of twenty years stripped of her dignity and all but begging for her people's lives. With him, it was getting to the point where apathy was subsuming fear. Aedon was already as angry as Aedon got, and if Aedon was going to kill somebody then nothing would stop him now. He might as well say his piece and get it over with.

"Sure, a lot of the work is automated, but the bots can't do everything," Osman continued as if delivering a daily report, his voice as stoic and unassuming as always, while all eyes turned to him. "If you could stop taking so many prisoners and release some of the ones you have…"

"_Shut your fucking hole_!" roared the gunman closest to him. In a flash, the bearded goon was at Kern's side, yanking the colonist's head back by his greying hair and jamming the barrel of a snub-nosed pistol into his temple. There were a couple of reflexive cries from the stage, but they were strangled and barely audible. Once upon a time, there would have been full-throated screams, but the Sanjivans had quickly learned that such displays only invited further bloody reprisals.

Amazingly, Kern wasn't done. Grimacing in pain, he finished his sentence: "… then we could work faster and that would benefit you directly."

"You must really wanna die," the goon breathed, almost lovingly, lowering his ugly face so close to Kern's that it seemed like they were about to snog. "Say the word, Boss, and I'll ventilate this maggot's…"

"Ah, ease off on him, Piotr." The genial, flamboyant Aedon was back, waving his gloved hand in a dismissive motion. "I don't mind a bit of ballsy now and then, makes a nice change from the old grovel."

"He… he's right," Sagan tentatively started. "More people means more ore from the mines and more fuel rods in the vaults, but these last months, it's like you're taking prisoners every day. You don't need to do that, you've got all the hostages you need."

"One of the things I love most about you Sanjivans," Aedon mused, "is your tenacity in the face of hardship. You folks are literally the little engine that could. If I could figure out how you do it, if we spacers could just follow your example, I doubt we'd even be having this conversation."

At Sagan's uncomprehending stare, the pirate leader grew a broad smile and started strolling down the sensor aisle toward the observation stage, idly tossing the plum from hand to hand. He elucidated:

"Construction ores devalue, you modify your refinery and start making fusion isotopes instead. Supply shipments stop, you learn to make what you need and make do with what you have. If outsiders threaten you, you can even band together and miraculously transform from peaceful colonists to soldiers."

Aedon paused, standing across from the comms desk. He again flipped the waterplum casually into the air as he'd been doing, but before the fruit had landed in his gloved off-hand, his arm seemed to blur as his big handgun appeared like magic in his fist. The report was curiously muted, as if the weapon had a silencer. There might have been a cry from someone, from Kern or from the people on the stage, but Sagan only heard the bearded Piotr letting out an indignant shout as he jumped back: "Boss! You got this dirt-packer's blood on me!"

"Shut your whining, all of you," the commander snapped. He moved to the gasping Kern, stuck his long gun-barrel under the colonist's chin and tilted his head upward to look him in the eye.

"You've got stones, sirrah, no disputing that," Aedon said to him, conversationally. "I would expect that kind of behaviour from a fighting man, an equal. But you're a simple God-fearing man of the earth, and that means you acted above your station. I can't help but like your guts, so today I'll just air them out a little. Disrespect me again, and I'll reunite you with your friends at my place, or maybe I'll just air out your thick skull instead."

"You folk are too resourceful for your own good," he said, releasing Kern and addressing the observation stage. "If I give you too much leeway, you'll turn ploughshares to swords, and look how that turned out last time. We don't need another tragedy like that, do we?"

He paused a moment as if expecting an answer, and took a thoughtful bite from the plum. All was quiet for a moment, save for Osman Kern's laboured breathing. Then Aedon turned and fixed the chalk-white Sagan in his gaze, and his voice became quiet, venomous. "I've been too easy on you, I think. Last time I was here, none of you talked back at me like that. Put some of that Sanjivan chutzpa to work in the mines instead of provoking me, and people like your radioman won't suffer the consequences. My guests will stay my guests until your conduct merits their return. Oh, and if I see any more thermal activity at your shipyard, I'll nuke the whole place to perdition. Consider yourself warned."

"Let's go, boys. You ladies will have your quotas ready for me like you always do," he boomed to all in the room, his cape flaring out as he strode toward the main lift, "my ships will be fueled and my camp stocked before year-end, and any discourtesy will be met with appropriate reprimand, as always. Let's not mess with a winning formula, shall we?"

"I do adore this Sanjiva, you know," Aedon added, holding the lift doors a moment after all his men were in. "Have I mentioned how much I love what you've done with the place? Don't make me change things any more than I must. That is all."

Just as the doors were closing, he tossed the half-eaten plum through the crack to Sagan in an absurd, playfully psychotic parting gesture. She caught it reflexively, just stared at it for a long moment while Van Vehmendal and the others rushed to the injured Kern. She heard Osman irritably assuring everyone that he was all right and he didn't need any damn stretcher to get to med-lab, then his voice slurred and ceased as he passed out.

There was a wastebasket less than ten feet away at one of the desks, and she willed her unmoving hand to discard the fruit and get to her job. Poor Osman needed her, her people needed her, she needed to do her job and hold Threshold together. But instead, her callused fingers curled in on themselves like claws, crushing the waterplum to a pulp in her trembling fist.

x x x x x

_**Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," central colony complex  
Level 3 east: personnel elevator B**_

"Did you see the face on the old bitch? She looked like she had Tiny's torpedo up her arse the whole time Boss was working 'em!" Jacek jeered as the lift gradually neared docking level.

"Shut the fuck up, J. I'm getting crotch-rot just thinking about it," rumbled Tupolev, to further derisive laughter.

"Ah, but she didn't look so when she first came in, did you notice?" their commander pointed out. "They were starting to get comfortable with their current state of affairs. Here's a little psychology quiz, children: why is client comfort a bad thing in this business?"

The knife man, Bors, made a snort of amused contempt: "Happy rats might start chewing on the cage."

"Exactly," Aedon nodded. "Our hosts had found some breathing room. I suspect they also had the beginnings of a plan, and that's why I had to give poor Piotr his new paint job. The more fear we inspire, the less coherent thought they muster, and effective resistance becomes ever more unlikely."

"I don't know, Boss. Kick a mutt too much and it might bite back, however busted up it might be," Tupolev cautioned.

"Oh puh-huh-leeze. It's nothing but runts and broads left now, all the pricks dumb enough to screw with us are worm food by now," said Jacek. "What are they gonna do, come at us with frying pans?"

"All I care about is the fuel, and I sure don't feel like picking in the dirt for it myself," Tiny replied. "They're in strung-out shape, and we're not the only ones squeezing 'em. Somebody else is out there, somebody real good at hiding. What's the deal with the 'prisoners,' Boss? Slaver outfit maybe?"

"Not my problem," Aedon shrugged dismissively. "Civil revolt, looters, maybe even local fauna for all I know. They don't bother us, we don't bother them. Let the peasants think we're doing it, makes our job that much easier."

"What about the shipyard?" Tupolev asked. "Do I want to keep my boys away from there?"

"Nah, I won't torch it yet, not tonight anyway," said the commander. "They're not making anything for off-planet, it would take years at that rate. Give 'em a chance to move whatever equipment they're working on."

"I think I'll swing by there tomorrow and see what it is," Tupolev growled. "If you saw thermals from the Oscuro and you feel they're getting brave, then I want to make sure they're not making trouble."

"Have a ball," Aedon nodded. "If you find anything, let me know so I can drop an early easter egg or two."

The lift doors opened and the raiders poured out onto the windy docking alcove, some heading for the shuttle bound for the orbiting Corazon Oscuro, some for the second shuttle heading to the planetside camp.

Amongst the more perceptive of the outworlders, a vague sense of unease prevailed, especially so for the massive lieutenant Tupolev, who was arguably the most savvy of the lot beside the commander himself. The Boss seemed unconcerned about the situation on the surface, but that didn't make things any easier. Aedon was half-crazy, and he always knew more than he was letting on. From the helm of his own ship, Tiny watched the engine lights of the spacebound shuttle recede skyward, and hoped that the Boss knew what the hell he was doing.

Because there was something going on at this mudball of a planet, something that Tupolev sensed but couldn't understand, something bad. There was another force here besides the colonists and his own crew. And it was out of his control.

x x x x x

_Author's notes:_

_My apologies for the long wait since last update! Oh, and it's the same story with updates, just split into smaller chapters, for any previous readers who might be confused. Big chapters aren't working out for me. A smaller chapter size lets me finish more chapters and update more often, which is nice when my only free time comes in erratic bursts. I'd like to thank previous readers for their patience, and to welcome new ones to my humble tale. Enjoy!_

_- SA_


	2. Sanjiva's Hope

CHAPTER 2: SANJIVA'S HOPE

_**Planet Sanjiva, primary satellite of Omega Cygni a.k.a. "Naraka" in the Cygnus Star Region  
Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," central colony complex  
Level 3 east: medical treatment and analysis center**_

"Take a breath, folks. He'll pull through," said old Doc Ryszard from inside the surgical cryostasis bay, his voice coming from the overhead speakers while Sagan and the others watched from behind the isolation screen. As ordered, everyone present took a deep breath of relief, and Van Vehmendal quietly thanked him with tears in her eyes.

"How bad is he hurt?" Sagan asked.

"Not bad. Osman's a lucky man," he replied, looking up at them from behind the plexiglass tube holding Kern's body in suspended animation. Within the cryopod, a mechanical arm was hovering over the patient's middle and focusing bright light over the injury, while robotic tendrils thin as gossamer threads hung down from it and did their life-saving dance on his bloodied abdomen.

"It looks like the bullet went out of its way not to hit anything major," the Doc said, as he checked the console controlling the operation. "There's a bit more to do, but the autodoc just about has him patched up already. His convalescence won't take long if there's no complications, he should be on his feet in a couple of weeks. But don't push him, y'hear? A belly wound is no small deal, and if something goes wrong I'm not sure if I can handle it. I don't suppose you got that scum to release Maja?"

"Kern got shot just for bringing it up," said Heidi, almost snarling, and the Doc shook his head sadly.

Maja Ostazewska was the chief medical officer of Threshold, and she'd been their last surgeon before her own disappearance months ago. She'd been a hero and a fool, insisting on going out after nightfall when Joe Rosner had called with chest pains, just in case it was a second heart attack. And now, Ostazewska and the whole Rosner family were missing without a trace, lost to the pirates' nocturnal depredations.

Although he was a retired pediatrician without surgical training, Bartek Ryszard had stepped up to the plate, jumping into the role of universal caregiver with admirable diligence even though there was only so much he could do. He'd been a battlefield medic for the USAAC Colonial Marines before he became a doctor, and high-stakes situations didn't faze him in the slightest.

The doors to med-lab whirred open, and more people rushed in: Wulcan, her son, and Eve Owan. Sagan whirled to face them, her frayed nerves giving way to incredulous anger.

"What the hell are you three doing here?" she snapped. "I told you to hole up in the service tower till they were gone!"

"I insisted," said Owan, firmly. "We saw the muzzle flash from outside, who's hurt? Are my medical skills needed?"

"Are you even aware that you're a goddamn _Arcturan_?" Sagan shouted at her, in one of the rare instances when she lost her cool completely. Eve's unawareness of her own exotic beauty and mystique was endearing in ordinary circumstances, and a serious threat to her survival nowadays. "If they had the slightest clue there's an Arcturan female on this planet, they'd rip the place apart till they had you on that ship, and you'd spend the rest of your life with your legs in the air for _forty goddamn pirates_! What happens to your damn medical skills then, huh?"

"Ana, I am sorry," Owan started to say, "but I cannot stand by and let a friend come to…"

"And what about you?" Sagan turned on Brigid Wulcan. "Those damn bastards shoot boys like Ezra _on a whim_! They could have killed him on sight, just for the hell of it! _Is that what you want_?"

"You wanted me to let Eve walk here _alone in the fucking dark_?" The mining foreman retorted, her own temper flaring. "Or was I supposed to go with her and leave Ezra in the tower _by himself_? If you think I'm…"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Doc Ryszard's gravelly voice interrupted, as he emerged from isolation. "Everybody take a nice deep breath right now. This is exactly what those pirate types want: us off-kilter and at each other's throats. You know we're better than that, right?"

Wulcan still looked murderous and ready to blow her stack, but the Doc went over and soothingly patted her shoulder with his wrinkled hand, and the fire in her eyes slowly cooled. Sometimes, pediatric skills worked on adults just fine.

"Don't do nothing different just for me. I'm not afraid to die," said Ezra, a sort of tired bravado in his young voice. It broke Sagan's heart every time she heard him say something like that, he sounded so much like his brothers before him. She could only imagine how his mother felt.

"There isn't a soul on this planet who doesn't know that, son," the Doc said gently. "Everybody here wants to do the right thing, whatever it takes. But we're all tired and scared and not quite thinking straight. What's done is done. Let's just let it go, hey?"

He was right, of course. The chief administrator silently chastised herself a moment; this was the last thing her people needed from a leader. She thanked Ezra for protecting Eve and his ma on the way here, which drew a faint smile more rare and beautiful than a Sanjivan rainbow, and she apologized to Owan and Wulcan, who readily made up with her. Brigid was the type who forgave just as quickly as she lost her temper, and Eve had a heart as golden as her skin. Sagan then moved to one of the beds and sat down, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. A lot had just happened, and something urgent had just been added to the queue which she couldn't put her finger on.

The Hoffman family was the latest to go missing, and she had to get a search party together for the morrow, however pointless that might be. With their cruiser back in-system, the raiders were going to come looking for fresh fuel sooner rather than later, and she needed to get as much as possible from the refinery and the stores to avert reprisal. If Uma Scheller had made short-range contact with a Company ship of any significance, then she needed a sit-rep and an aid request ready that would cause them neither to lose interest nor write Threshold off as a lost cause. And Aedon had warned not to… wait a minute… _what_ had the bastard warned?

"To answer your questions, ma'am," the Doc was saying to Owan, in the meantime. "It's Osman Kern who got hurt, but he's doing fine for the moment. Right now, I'm more concerned about the health of all the rest of us."

"Why? If they keep up with this another year, we might as well shoot ourselves and be done with it!" Van Vehmendal suddenly exclaimed. The young astrophysicist been looking at Kern through the plexiglass and running her hand through her crimson hair as she did when she was stressed, and now she turned and threw up her arms in frustration.

"They're bleeding us for every ounce of ion fuel we can scrape!" she said, distraught. "If they do another big sweep for that bloody ship of theirs, we're not going to have enough for the fusion plant! We barely have enough power to keep the mines and refineries running as it is, and every time they kidnap a mine worker we have to charge up more bots just to break even! What happens if the power fails and we lose the atmosphere processor? How long then before we're all sucking methane?"

"They won't do that, they can't!" said biologist Bettina Kupfer in alarm. "They never take all the fuel, they need us alive to make more. They're not going to just wipe out a fuel-producing planet while there's still ore in the ground!"

"But the motherfuckers keep taking people anyway!" Wulcan interjected. "We're almost at critical, and they just keep on kidnapping! They're either too fucking stupid to realize they're killing Threshold, or they know it and they don't fucking care!"

"You think Sagan doesn't know that? You think anybody here doesn't know that already?" said Sebastian Konrad, the mechanical engineer. "What else is there to do? Fight them? Hide? Beg? We tried all that and it only got people killed! I say we do nothing, and when they realize it's impossible for us to produce their precious fuel as we are, they'll send our people back."

"But what if they've found someplace better for their home base and they're done with us?" said servicewoman Jan Farhi, a sudden awful possibility coming to her and making her voice hoarse with dread. "They could be just grabbing up everything left on Sanjiva for one last year, including slaves and organs for the black market, and then they'll bug off and leave the rest of us to choke! We have to do something!"

Sagan looked up suddenly. "Everyone except senior staff, please give us the room," she ordered. "Eve and Heidi, you stay too. We have work to do, right now."

The Sanjivans quickly obeyed and filed out the main door, leaving her with the Doc, Wulcan, Konrad, Van Vehmendal, and Owan. Ryszard raised a bushy white eyebrow and gave her a quizzical look.

"You think they're finished with Naraka?" he asked.

"I don't know one way or the other," Sagan replied, "But we were working on something beforehand, and I just realized that it might be now or never."

"I'm sorry we didn't tell you two before, but we had to keep as many people in the dark as possible so the pirates wouldn't learn this from a kidnap victim. We have a starship under repair, almost fixed," she informed the startled Heidi and Doc Ryszard. "And Aedon's threatening to nuke the last shipyard."

x x x x x

Wulcan stared at the director a moment and then swore through clenched teeth. Konrad grew pale and motionless, and Owan lowered her eyes.

"The pirates didn't destroy every ship and transmitter on Sanjiva," Sagan explained to Ryszard and Van Vehmendal. "They missed Eve's survey ship, a tough little long-range scout. Well, they blasted the hanger she parked in when she first touched down, but the craft wasn't completely smashed. It was salvageable. We've been spending the last couple of years putting it back together, just using the mech bay to repair a little at a time to keep them from noticing. It isn't finished, but if we're going to use it for anything, we might have to launch now."

"I'm not sure we can use it at all," Konrad murmured. "The atmospheric drive is up, it can leave orbit. But I haven't optimized the ion drive for the low grade isotopes we're stuck with, meaning it'll be a pretty long hyperspace journey to the nearest anywhere. And without a working cryopod…" he shrugged helplessly. "I just need a little more time! Look, Sagan, the leader only said that he would destroy the shipyard if he saw it in use. He'll lose interest if we shut it down for a while, right?"

"What do you think, Doc? Can we hold off Aedon a little longer?" Sagan turned to him.

"No. The fact that he mentioned it at all means he's going to do it, and soon," said Ryszard, his voice turning grim. "He has it on his mind, and that man doesn't waste time with anything that bothers him. We have to figure out what we're doing with the thing, and solve or circumvent whatever problems are left before he blows it away."

"Without a hyperdrive, I don't know, could we use the ship to attack him?" asked Wulcan. "If we load it with explosives and take out their main ship, then the base camp might not be…"

"No, no, no. Attacking that cruiser would be suicide," the Doc advised. "They have multiple weapon systems and armed transports, and they know how to fight in space. Look, is there any possible way to jury-rig our ship for long range?"

"One alternative is at hand," Owan spoke up. "If we must go to another system, then as long as the life support is functioning, I can, um…"

Eve paused, as if searching for the right thing to say. Her peers looked at her in surprise. The highly intelligent and articulate Owan had never come up stuttering before.

"Some Arcturans can enter a state of meditation, a kind of natural stasis where we require far less resources and nutrients to survive," she explained in an awkward manner. "As long as the air scrubbers are functioning properly, I can endure a lengthy trip."

"Why didn't you tell… ah, never mind," Wulcan caught herself. Eve seemed quite embarrassed by what she had just shared, and the foreman suspected that her people considered their meditation trance a private, taboo subject. Konrad seemed to find the whole situation rather amusing, and she shot him a scathing glance.

"And I thought you folks were physiologically identical to us Earth types," the Doc remarked, restraining his curiosity. "Alright, that's a start. But when she takes off, we need a way to stop the pirates from finishing what they started, or their ship will blow her to smithereens as soon as they see her leaving orbit."

"That's why Heidi's here," said Sagan, looking over to the astrophysicist. "You're the outer space expert. Do we have any options?"

Van Vehmendal thought about it, ran her hand through her hair. After a moment, she spoke up.

"The ionized charge in Sanjiva's stratosphere would make a pretty good sensor jammer for a small ship," she said. "The pirates can see everything coming to the planet easy enough, but the electrical storms would make it hard to see outbound ships straight away. If I can plot a course that keeps the planet between Eve's ship and their cruiser till she reaches the cover of the asteroid belt, she's home free, right?"

"It'll need some bloody amazing flying to keep a course like that through the upper storms though," said Wulcan darkly.

"Well, assuming we get through all of that, there's still one last problem, and it's the biggest one," said Sagan. "With the limited range we have, where the hell are we going? We need help, but who can we reach that's most likely to send it? You've seen more of Cygnus cluster than any of us Doc, so I sure hope you have some ideas."

"That's why I'm here, eh? Well, it's a coin toss whether the Company decides to help or not," mused Ryszard, "Local security forces might chase them off, but the closest major settlements are nowhere close to here. And even if there's any regional military left, there's no telling where they are."

The Doc thought about it a moment then let out a low sigh. "I'd say your best bet is Cygnus Alpha. Maybe Argus Kappa, but that's pushing it."

"Cygnus Alpha? You mean Deneb, right?" said Heidi in surprise. "That's close by, but Doc, there's nothing but an abandoned mining outpost there."

"That's what most folk think, and they're mostly right, nothing there for them," Ryszard replied. "But if you're a long time spacer or someone with dealings on the other side of the law, you might know that there's also a hidden space port on Cygnus Alpha, the kind of place decent folk don't want to see."

"You mean a freeport? Outside ICC jurisdiction?" said Konrad in disbelief. "Doc, who the hell's going to help us in a place like that? Those pirates probably came from there in the first place!"

"Outlaws aren't the only spacers who hang about such places, my friend," Ryszard replied. "Look, there's about a bottle rocket's chance in a black hole that anyone will help us free of charge. Civilization has just about broken down out here. We want help, we're going to have to pay for it. And there's usually people at freeports who'll do anything for the right price."

"I'm talking about mercenaries, folks," he elaborated. "Hired guns. Heidi's right, those scum out there will bleed us till there's nothing left, we have to take them out altogether. And for that we need guns and gunships, and people who know how to use them."

"How are we going to pay for that kind of firepower?" Wulcan demanded. "We can't raise a fucking army with what we've got!"

"Don't need an army," said the Doc. "The pirates only have one battlewagon and a few shuttles besides their airskiffs, right? If we get the jump on them, we might only need a couple of squads and one or two good fighting ships. And even with our low-quality stuff, everyone in the region is so desperate for fuel that we might just get a few takers."

"This is ridiculous," Van Vehmendal protested. "We're going to freebooters for help? What if they turn on us? What if we just end up exchanging one band of marauders for another?"

"And what about her?" she pointed to the one offworlder present. "She's the only one who can do this, and she's an Arcturan for God's sake! You want to send a female Arcturan to a place like that? Why don't we just sell Eve to the black market ourselves!"

"It is perfectly acceptable to risk one life for the sake of all Sanjiva!" Owan said sharply. "I am ready to face anything for this chance!"

"Not all freelancers are scum like those pirates," the Doc added. "Some just don't want anything to do with the Company or the ICC, and who can blame them? Eve will just need to be careful and look for the right men."

There was a long moment of silence as the colonists stared at each other for a long moment and contemplated what had been said.

"We just don't have a lot of options," said Sagan, frowning. "It's dicey, but this is the best plan I've heard."

"Now wait one bloody minute!" growled Wulcan. "What about the other systems in range? There's got to be something else!"

"We were looking at them before," said Sagan, "and right now, I think they're more of a risk. There's three or four possibilities including the Company station that used to supply us, but like the Doc said, they're pretty far from here. Anything they send might not arrive before year-end, and it's up in the air whether they'll decide to assist us even if they can."

"And the alternative is to throw Eve into the lion's den and hope we don't end up with more of the same," muttered Konrad. "I don't like this, Sagan. It's a hell of a long shot."

"This looks like our best chance," said Sagan, coming to a resolution. "And we only have one shot."

"Let's get organized," she said as she rose to her feet. "I want this done ASAP, tonight if possible. Yes I know it's after dark, but we'll just have to chance it. Those bastards could blast the shipyard at any moment."

x x x x x

_**Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," secondary vehicle machineworks  
Deepspace survey vessel USCSS Galatea, standing by for launch authorization on utility pad 2**_

The Galatea wasn't much to look at, just a cylindrical body with two half-oval fins. The patchwork welded over its frame to replace the lost and damaged sections made the thing even more homely-looking, too. Some would call it outright ugly, in stark contrast to its comely pilot, and its performance specs were just as unimpressive. But before it had come to Naraka Prime, it had been Eve Owan's home. And now, the hopes of two hundred Sanjivan colonists rode with her on its wings.

Threshold's chief administrator carefully ascended the ramp to the cabin, using a small handlamp to guide her way. All the outer lights had been kept unlit, and the whole operation had been carried out in near-darkness in the hopes that any enemy aerovehicles on the hunt would not notice. Sagan's skin was crawling with anxiety and excitement – it might not be on her terms, but Threshold was taking unified action at last, her people working together to reclaim their home from their tormentors.

The cabin airlock had been overridden so that both hatches were open, allowing for quicker access during the ship's prep and supply. Sagan overheard Sebastian Konrad talking to Owan inside, he sounded amused in a mocking sort of way: "…hibernation trance? Of all the things to tell them, I never…"

"Hello, Anemona. It is good to see you," Eve called out, before she was quite through the door. She was as alert as ever; hopefully that would help keep her alive in times to come.

"Well anyway, everything you need is here, equipment wise. Hey lady, good luck," Konrad concluded, a little abruptly, and nodded to Sagan as he made his way out. The director looked at him curiously as he passed by, and then put it from her mind. She had never understood the close yet somehow impersonal relationship between those two.

"Hi Eve. How long now?" she asked, coming up beside the pilot's chair in the cramped control pod.

"The enemy command ship is past the designated azimuth, though Miss Van Vehmendal suggests to wait another ten minutes before initiating launch sequence," Owan replied. "I suppose I must say goodbye soon."

"Doctor Ryszard talked with you already?"

"Yes, of course. His understanding of social behaviour in a freeport is limited, but I believe I can obscure my appearance and communicate without immediate risk. Ana, are you worried?"

"Does it show that much?" Sagan asked wryly. "I really wish there was some other way. Thank you, on behalf of all of us. It's only been two years now, and you've done so much already. And now here you are, going off to risk everything for us. If all your people are this wonderful, well, I hope I can meet some more of them someday."

"It has always been my pleasure and my privilege," the Arcturan smiled. "Please do not worry. I will do my best."

"I know. Look, Eve, I want to ask you to do something, and I don't think you'll like it. It's time to face some cold, hard facts. Simply put, the odds are heavily against us, and you have a way out. Whether you can hire mercenaries or not, I don't want you to come back to Sanjiva, not until its safe."

"Just listen, alright? This isn't your fight," she cut in as Owan started to protest, "and you've already put yourself at risk I don't know how many times. We have no right to ask you to die for us. After your business is done on Cygnus Alpha, well you're a surveyor, go survey new worlds for a while, eh? If we're still here after the dust settles, you know you'll always be welcome back."

"Thank you, but you must know I would refuse," Eve stated. "Ethically speaking, I cannot…"

"Exactly how did a Company surveyor pick up such a high sense of ethics?" Sagan interrupted sharply. "Let me put it this way, Flight Officer Owan. You're a Weyland-Yutani employee, and I'm the ranking authority on this corporate holding. I'm ordering you not to return until you're certain that your safety is ensured. Is that clear?"

Owan was silent for a long moment, gazing at her through those gorgeous, inscrutable amber eyes. "Is that what Terrans call 'pulling rank,' Ana?"

"I gave you an order, Officer Owan! Do not return to Naraka Prime until you're certain that your safety is ensured! _Is that clear?_"

"Yes ma'am. Crystal clear, ma'am."

"Good," said Sagan and smiled as best as she could. Part of the moral code that Owan followed so faithfully was due respect for authority, so hopefully her instructions would be obeyed. She considered this near-human woman a closer friend than most true-blood Terrans she knew, and she hated having to do this to her, but if it kept Eve alive then it was worth it.

"With any luck, we'll be seeing you again in a few months, right? Good luck, kid. You take care of yourself, y'hear?"

"Of course, Ana. Goodbye, and good luck to you too." They shook hands, and then Eve suddenly reached out and hugged the iron-haired administrator tight, in a completely open and unpretentious gesture of affection. Sometimes, there was such a child-like innocence about the Arcturan that Sagan wondered how she could have possibly survived employment to an entity like Weyland-Yutani.

Minutes later, the Galatea was a bright fire ascending into the darkness. Amidst a small crowd of anxious Sanjivans in the shipyard's small flight control tower, Sagan watched her go, and crossed her fingers.

x x x x x

_Author's Notes:_

_Just for the record, I only consider the movies to be canon for this settting. I'm sure there's lots of spin-off books and comics who have convincing interpretations of how Aliens, Predators, Androids and Arcturans tick, but well, they have theirs and I have my own. _

_Come to think of it, the movies contradict themselves here and there too, like the first movie suggesting that Aliens transmogrified living humans into eggs, while the second had a hive mother laying the eggs. Heh, all the more leeway for me. Frankly, I like Ridley Scott's version better, it makes the creatures much more malevolent and unlike anything on Earth, while James Cameron et al. just turns them into giant ants._

_- SA_


	3. Upon the Bloody Frontier

CHAPTER 3: UPON THE BLOODY FRONTIER

_**Planet Cygnus Alpha, first satellite of Alpha Cygni a.k.a. "Deneb Minor" in the Cygnus Star Region  
Outskirts of North Cross City, 115 km. from defunct Weyland-Yutani mining outpost "Sojourn"  
Private landing field, vicinity of general vehicle-servicing hangar**_

"Hey Pops," Dean called over to the the tall man in faded fatigues, who was reclining on the sandy tarmac of the landing field, his back against the wall of the repair hangar. Piers Pappagallo tilted up the brim of his navy cap and glanced toward the haggard-looking owner of the field.

"I got a contact from out-system, looks like a Wey-You transport all right. Good call man." That got the attention of the other half-dozen layabouts lounging around the field; newcomers offered a shot at employment, and a moment's entertainment at the very least.

"About time," Pappagallo murmured. He was a hard-looking man with greying hair, whose voice was deep and imposing even when he was speaking quietly. "Well?"

"Already laid out the welcome mat, beacon's up and the shout-out's sent. Just hope they got some business for both of us."

"Said they were looking for pilots," Pappagallo shrugged, and settled back down. There wasn't much more to do now but wait, and see if he got lucky when she landed.

Truth be told, Stanton Dean's landing field wasn't the best place to find pilot's work on this washed-up rock of a world. The field was just a helter-skelter scramble of depots and hangars built around three launch pads and a single runway, and it was out in the desolate orange-sand barrens west of North Cross City. That put it far enough from the settlement to make coming out here inconvenient, and although there was a serviceable road nearby, the sparse traffic on the way to Junction paid little attention.

The raggedy spaceship tinker still got customers enough though. His place was just right for pilots looking to avoid unwanted attention, and there was nothing stopping them from making forays for jobs elsewhere. What's more, Eli's boys generally didn't come out here much for protection money, which was a bit of a bonus for everybody here.

"Hey Pops," Dean eventually called out to Pappagallo again, a fair while later. The heat was stifling, sapping the energy of all under Deneb's blood-red glare, and the old merc looked to have dozed off.

"You did tell 'em to swing over to my pad, right?" the merc didn't respond. Even if he wasn't asleep, he was prone to ignoring dumb questions or requests to repeat himself, so Dean let him be.

"Hey Pops," called the gaunt field operator later on. "They ain't coming here man."

"You sure?" said Pappagallo after a long pause, without looking up.

"They're not following any of my waypoints, that's for sure." A couple of the down-and-out spacers grumbled and slung their gunnysacks; there would be no work to be found here.

"Damn. Sorry to hear it. Let me know which field then," he said mildly, and went back to the waiting game, though it was looking like just another wasted morning.

"Hey Pops," called Dean, later yet. "Uh… they ain't coming to Nor'Cross at all."

That got Pappagallo's attention. He pushed his cap-brim all the way up, leveled piercing icy-blue eyes at the field operator. Rather than try to explain, Dean just grabbed the portable console on his messy workbench and came over to where the mercenary was laying.

"They're past the equatorial… negative declination now, see?" said Dean, squatting down beside him and offering him the console. The ancient tracking array at the other end of the runway let out a squeal of protest as it moved to follow a target well outside its usual field of view.

"Doesn't look like they're coming down hard," said Pappagallo, sitting up as he scrutinized the grimy wafer-thin screen. "They responding to comms at all?"

"Nope, no mayday, no nothing. Hey, they're dropping off now," Dean noticed. "Where the hell are they going? That's out in the wasteland."

"They're going for the old Sojourn complex." said Pappagallo flatly. "They must figure there's still a Company presence there."

"Poor bastards," said Dean, and rubbed his weatherbeaten jowls in disappointment. "Well that's the end of that."

"Maybe," said Pappagallo. He touched a finger to his temple, eyes narrowed to slits as he mulled things over.

Dean, who had come to know his long-time lodger, recognized the gesture. "Hey, you're not gonna do anything dippy, right?"

"Maybe," he said. How long had he been on this sun-baked rock now? Sometimes, it seemed like he was getting as cynical and indifferent as every other hustler in these parts.

Pappagallo abruptly rose to his feet, the unlikely speed and litheness of his lanky form giving the field's owner a momentary startle.

"Open the gate on my barn," he requested, then walked over to the other spacers watching on. "I'm taking my rig for a spin, out southways. Any of you boys feel like riding shotgun?"

"You joking, old man?" one of them asked, his tone of voice suggesting that he was either joking or senile. This was a fighter pilot if Pappagallo remembered right, one of the escorts of a convoy stranded here a while back.

"Could be some work in it," he suggested. "Even if they don't stay, could be they have some news from out-system. They'll be needing a hand one way or the other, and it's something to do."

"And that's worth going out to the wasteland? Are you fucking crazy?" the pilot laughed. "Hey, can I keep your ship after you get your ass shot off?"

"Sure," said Pappagallo. "Come on out to Sojourn with me, and it's all yours."

The man laughed again and suggested that he should go do something anatomically impossible, but he quietened as Pappagallo's gaze settled on him. A couple of the other spacers met his eyes briefly, but no one spoke. He waited for a moment longer, then turned away and started heading back to the hangar where his gunship and ground rover were parked. Dean was standing at the hangar door, hands on his bony hips, and the door was still closed.

"Hey Pops," the operator said to him as he approached. "I know you have a fast draw to go with that bleeding heart, but I don't see much of a payoff in this particular gamble, hear?"

"What's the matter, Stan?" he asked. "You're the man who really will get my ship if I go down."

"Right. What am I gonna do with a restricted military boat with no fuel and no pilot?" the operator retorted.

Pappagallo just looked at him and didn't budge, and after a moment Dean shrugged and put in the unlock code on his console, and stepped aside as the gate began to rise. Pappagallo's big gunship loomed within, her simple but efficient AI immediately recognizing him and lowering her loading ramp at his spoken command. Moments later, he was rolling out his planetside vehicle, a squat, streamlined surface-to-air scout rover with battered armour that had once been black, now a washed-out sort of grey.

There was another man walking up to the hangar entrance, one of the two who had left early when the incoming ship had first veered away, and he raised an amicable hand as Dean curiously looked on.

"Morning," he called out as the rover came to a halt in front of him. "I just heard those visiting folk are putting down in the desert, that right?"

"That's right," said Pappagallo, leaning out of the rover's side hatch to scrutinize the fellow. Caucasian, with a deep tan and dirty blond hair, youngish but seasoned-looking, wearing a flight jumpsuit cobbled together with jacket, bandolier, and gunbelt. Everybody wore hats on Cygnus Alpha to keep their skin and brains from cooking, and this chap had gone for the cowpoke look with a widebrim, rather than the balaclava padding that most pilots simply detached from their flight helmets. Pappagallo had a feeling that he'd seen this man before, and not just on this dustball of a frontier world.

"I also heard you're setting out to say hello and show 'em the neighbourhood, and you wouldn't mind a little companionship."

"Well, my lady friend up top could sure use someone to hold her hand," he replied, raising a thumb to indicate the smartgun rig mounted on the roof cupola.

"Sounds like a date," the man flashed a dimpled smile, "assuming three's company, anyway."

"Good to see somebody's still got some steel around here," Pappagallo said, and opened the cuppola's hatch as the fellow came to the side and pulled himself atop the vehicle.

"Us pilots ought to stick together, mate. No action here anyway."

"I hear that," he agreed. That was the long and short of it.

x x x x x

_**Low orbit over planet Cygnus Alpha, 65000 m. above Weyland-Yutani mining outpost "Sojourn"  
Commercial light transport USCSS Sotero, on final approach to atmospheric insertion**_

The starship Sotero was meant primarily to be a towing support ship for Company cargo freighters, but she also had enough onboard capacity to take independent contracts, as a deep-range light transport or passenger shuttle if need be. And with certified assignments growing more scarce and unprofitable every year, she had been forced to take these risky unofficial ferrying jobs more often than not, as she was doing now. It was the only way to stay in space, and not end up another of the thousands of landlocked starships with no fuel for work and no work to pay for fuel.

This time out, to conserve her dwindling energy the captain had risked a shortcut between the outer star clusters of the region to reach the mid-rim. And as fortune would have it, she had been forced out of hyperspace by an undocumented meteor swarm crossing into her path, and left without enough power in her single remaining ion cell to complete her original flight plan. And so here she was, wandering alone and vulnerable in the middle of nowhere, searching for anyone, anywhere that could offer a way back to civilized space.

Merchant Flight Officer Robert Leylan had taken on another stranded pilot more as a matter of necessity than of civil responsibility: she had offered a fuel transfer from her inoperative vessel, and the Sotero was flying on fumes. And now that he had enough reserves to make planetfall on the nearest inhabited world, Leylan was tempted to toss the woman back out the airlock, fellow Company employee or not.

She had set up shop as though she was a member of the command crew, taking over the vacant operations chair to supervise the refueling and then refusing to vacate after the job was done. And now she was acting as though she had a say in how he ran his own ship.

"Officer Leylan, this course of action is irrational on several levels and there is still time to rectify it," the woman was saying. "I have already arranged for safe passage to a secure landing zone, how would changing course…"

"Officer Owan, aboard this ship you address me as captain, understood?" Leylan glared at the woman across the dark, cramped confines of the bridge, and she glared back, her eyes flashing in the instrument lighting. Her eyes were really the only part of her clearly visible under that creepy outfit; she looked like a cross between a ninja and a mummy all wrapped up like that. When had the Company started hiring from that fanatical Moslem lot anyway? Moslems in full religious getup with officers' grades no less?

Outside, the orange-red surface of Cygnus Alpha glowed below the burning light of Deneb. The Sotero, a small thick-bodied ship with wide thruster-laden wings, slowly wheeled about to align her underside toward the planet. The Alpha Cygni system was heavily crowded with clouds of asteroid debris, especially in the vicinity of the star's closest planet, and the red-limned outlines of the orbiting rocks loomed not far overhead. The sight was deceptively serene, for the ship was in dire straits: low on fuel, reefs above, and unfriendly skies below.

"I have confirmed from multiple sources that the Company outpost here is not only inoperative but completely abandoned," Owan argued to Leylan. "There is no central law enforcement down there – landing in an uncontrolled zone will endanger this ship!"

"Looks like the lady's sounding red alert today," the copilot Raiker muttered, employing an unflattering menstrual slur.

"You think it's safer in the freeport, ma'am?" the captain answered her, his irritation growing. He was an exacting man who prized the observance of proper procedure, and these past years of growing uncertainty had done quite a number on his once-imperturbable conduct. "The only law outside the ICC comes from the lout with the most firepower. If we put down in such a place the local crime boss gets to charge whatever landing duties he feels like, assuming he doesn't simply seize the ship at gunpoint. We'll take our chances at Sojourn and that's final."

"I'm not asking you to land at the freeport! I've arranged for a berth at an independent landing field well outside the port, and I am certain this is the safest compromise between expense and the safety of…"

"Rob, take over for me will you? I just need a second to toss this bitch off the bridge," Raiker growled, rising from the copilot's chair.

"No, the window's right there. I'm taking the inertials offline, ready the landing sequence," he ordered.

The helmsman gave him an odd look, but he sat back down and reattached his safety harness. There was no particular need to go atmospheric right this second, but Leylan would prefer not to admit that the woman was a competent engineer and he'd decided to let her stay on the bridge after all. The Sotero was dangerously undermanned already, and this was treacherous territory for a landing. If something went wrong, the ship stood a better chance with somebody in the operations chair, even if it had to be her.

As Raiker began running his system checks, he noted another message on the 'incoming' display of his comms panel. "There it is again," he reported, indifferent. "Incoming radio traffic from the planet. Same source location near the port city, no official ident."

"Disregard," said Leylan.

"Captain Leylan, I am certain that is my surface contact. At least let me notify him of the change in plan," Owan pleaded. "We had an agreement, and I still need to meet him to…"

"Disregard," said Leylan, a little more forcefully.

"Hey toots! Are those fat torpedo tubes getting all the juice meant for your brain?" Raiker cut in before the woman could flap her jaw any further. He explained to her slow and simple, as if talking to a child or a retard: "Freeport equal bad people. If we talkie bad people, they track signal, they learn where we landing. We no want bad people to come where we land. So no talkie-talkie bad people, got it?"

Eve Owan stared at the pilot, trying to collate some highly conflicting data. This human was manning the helm of a deepspace craft, a complex task requiring extensive cosmological training. Could he really be unaware that anyone with a simple handheld laser telescope could extrapolate the course of an incoming starship to its landing zone?

"Captain Leylan, there is…" she started again.

"_What is it?_" he roared at her. A proper captain should never have to raise his voice, but he was a captain scrabbling for the last shreds of his remaining propriety.

The woman stared at him a moment, her gaze unreadable. Then she answered: "Starboard DOR-1 is not calibrated evenly. Shunt some power to me and I can restabilize the grid."

Raiker smirked. "Alla-whackber," he said, rudely butchering the Arabic version of 'Thank God'.

"Mind your rudder, Mister Raiker," Leylan admonished him, but only mildly. He felt rather the same way; thank the powers that be for the blasted wench's capitulation, now there would be order and quiet on his bridge again. "Very well Mister Owan, transferring charge now. Helm, inform the cabin and begin descent when ready."

"Aye aye, captain," Raiker acknowledged, and touched his headset switch. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the bridge. Please be seated and fasten all safety harnesses, we will be entering the mesosphere of Alpha Cygni Prime in five minutes."

Moments later, a noticeable shudder began running through the ship, and suddenly the unsettling sight of flames blazing over the bottom of the viewports had begun. The jarring turbulence grew to the point of discomfort, and grew stronger still, more than a modern starship should suffer during planetfall. Something was happening outside the proper procedure.

"Mister Raiker, why are we getting this much friction heat?" Leylan asked. "Reduce your velocity please."

"If I go any slower she'll start skipping off the surface," Raiker replied, raising his voice against the rumbling vibration running through the hull. "It's something in this air, the stuff is like hot mud."

"Detecting charged particulate in the upper atmosphere, heavy hull ionization. Attempting to compensate, rerouting additional power to the hull grid." Owan reported. The captain experienced a moment of satisfaction that he'd had the foresight to keep her on the bridge, aggravating as she might be.

"This is the captain," Leylan notified the passenger cabin. "We're expecting some turbulence on the way down. There is no need for concern, this is a normal part of atmospheric entry. We estimate touchdown in about twenty minutes."

"Wait, Rob, we might have a problem here," Raiker cautioned. "We're not getting much jolt-per-second out of that new cell to begin with, and now we have extra shields to feed. There's not a lot of power to throw around here."

"Steady as she goes," the captain ordered. "Set your best speed and do what you can."

"Ah, Officer Raiker," Owan cautiously said into her headset, attempting a different tactic by approaching the first mate. "If we were to set a gradual holding pattern on the way down, our aerofriction would decrease. It would take longer to reach the surface, but the lower rate of power consumption would..."

"Oh please," Raiker groaned. "You afraid of a little turbulence, sweetie? Go get your space sickness bag from under the seat, because I don't feel like taking a fucking hour to land."

The intense turbulence continued to grow, the din becoming earsplitting, the fiery glare from the windows blinding. After a few minutes of this, Raiker cut his comm feed to the rest of the bridge and said casually to Leylan in the pilot's chair beside him:

"Rob, my teeth are shaking out of my skull here. I'm setting a spiral approach pattern, alright? Slow our descent that way, should take some heat off the hull."

"Request granted," Leylan replied. "Draw your course as needed, Mister Raiker."

At the rear of the small command section, Eve Owan narrowed her eyes. Despite the deafening roar of the hull ploughing through the burning air outside, she had heard every word. The deprecation from these men was of little concern to her, but to get anything done she had to do this convoluted, baffling verbal dance around their egos, and it was the inefficiency of it all that was starting to get to her.

Doctor Ryszard back on Sanjiva had warned her that social interactions in Deneb might be difficult and frustrating, especially with the Terran males. But she hadn't expected it to start before she reached the planet itself.

Even though the surface of Cygnus Alpha would likely be far more dangerous than her current location, she couldn't wait to begin her true mission, and depart this wretched vessel in the process.

x x x x x

_**Silt Sea wasteland, 65 km. from defunct Weyland-Yutani mining outpost "Sojourn"  
USAAC Combat Airscout: XBGT02 Pursuit Special, approaching outpost perimeter at high speed**_

As the baking orange wasteland rushed below, Pappagallo increased the rover's speed just a bit more as he glanced at the distant speck of light above. The starship was coming down slowly, assuming he was reading her course right. That lent him some time, but Sojourn was still a fair distance away over troubled territory. If a friendly gun wasn't waiting at the landing site, whichever scav gang was currently holding the outpost ruins would give the visitors a less than friendly welcome.

The outworld spacer riding shotgun didn't say much, and that was fine by him. Neither had much use for the social lubricant of small talk while on the job, and it was a comfortable silence. Pappagallo concerned himself with the terrain ahead and the readings on the tracking scanner, and doubtless so did the other.

The fire in the sky gradually brightened till it was a falling star. The descending starship was close, and was now visible to all in the vicinity. "We'll be cutting it close," said his newfound gunner through the comm system. "This baby's a military make, isn't she? Can't you push her any faster?"

"Not over the Sea," Pappagallo radioed back, touching his own earpiece. "If we go any quicker, we wouldn't see an ambush ahead till we ran into it."

"I doubt those mangy scavs have any gear that could catch us," the gunner commented. "Not if I was at the stick, anyway."

"I've seen worse than scavs out there. Not often I suppose, but more than never."

"Sounds like my sex life," the other man chuckled. He seemed a pretty cool-headed type no matter the circumstances, and Pappagallo again felt the distinct sensation that he knew this man from somewhere else.

"Why don't we fly over to Broken Hills?" the fellow suggested, after a time. "Nothing worth scavenging there, and I know a few stretches through the canyons where we could really hit the jets."

"Don't think so. Too many twists and turns, that kind of seat-of-your-pants flying is a young man's game."

As he was replying, Pappagallo noted that pertinent bit of background info about the stranger and put it away for later. Speeding through the twisting canyons of Broken Hills wasn't something anyone undertook lightly, whatever age they might be. The pilot who figured out how to do it was either the hottest top gun around or someone who had spent extensive time mapping the place, and this man wasn't a local, making him very interesting either way.

The tracker chirped, picking up something several kilometres ahead that wasn't sand or rock.

"I see it," said the gunner. Good, he was quick on the scope. "Rock spire, some kind of prefab structure on top, old six-wheeler below with cheezy spikes and shit on it."

"Decent gear. That's no drifter band," said Pappagallo. "They're going to see our dust trail any second."

"What's your guess on threat level?"

"Probably minor, but if one scav is here, then more's ahead. Get ready. We're going weapons-hot."

"Affirm," came the reply. Pappagallo flicked the safety open on his joystick and thumbed the switch. The red tactical display lit up on the console as the rover's smart gun turret powered up, and the main cannon and side launchers unsheathed themselves from their bays.

"Way…! Nice toys! Well I feel a lot safer all of a… uh… you did check the ammo before we set out, right?" asked the gunner, undoubtedly having just noticed his own newly-lit display.

"Yep." Fuel wasn't the only thing in scarce supply these days.

"You are aware that all I've got is two or three good bursts on this lass, right?"

"Yep. Along with three warheads and about fifty rounds on the cannon. But they won't know that, will they."

"Oho, a bluff is it? Not a bad play, I wouldn't mess with a machine like this even if I knew. Guess I'll put on my poker face."

"Good man. Here they come."

These scavs reacted fast, and that was not good. His magnified display on their position showed the wheeler kicking up a spray of sand as it hit high gear from a stationary position, rushing to intercept. This wasn't like the lowly rag-tag scavenger bands wandering the wastes. These seemed more like desert raiders, aggressive and capable predator packs that challenged anything that came their way. It wasn't too likely, successful raider outfits were pretty rare after all, but he didn't like the feel of it.

When Pappagallo changed course slightly to avoid them, the other vehicle swerved to match. He wondered why they were bothering; there was little point in chasing an airborne flyer over rough ground with a wheeler. Nonetheless, he throttled up anyway and gave them a wider berth. It was best not to tempt fate with so little munitions left.

His caution paid off. As he evaded the wheeler's intercept attempt and was about to leave it in his dust, there was a bloom of smoke from the wheeler's roof as someone sent a parting present, most likely from a handheld mini-rocket tube. So there was the point of the chase: they were trying to get the closest range for their makeshift anti-air, another nice bit of gear for a desert beggar-band. It was odd that they were so quick to part with it though, especially since such a weapon was of little use against a fast moving target like his scout rover. Even so, the old merc wasn't taking any chances.

"Brace yourself."

"Whoa! Hey!" came from the cuppola as Pappagallo hit the jets, abruptly blasting from a relatively cautious pace into high speed. The dunes rushed below, and the incoming smoke stream passed by to explode somewhere far behind.

"What was that all about? That shot wasn't anywhere near us."

"Sorry. How's your hull?"

Outside, in the rover's roof turret, the second spacer gingerly stood up straight and rubbed the back of his neck. He leaned over the rear-pointing smartgun and reached down the long barrel, stretching his hand out as far as he could toward the wide-brimmed hat caught on the muzzle. Bending and draping himself over the length of the gun, he went up on tiptoes, and then on one leg, and finally managed to swipe his hat from its perch. And with that settled, he leaned back and jammed the widebrim back on his head.

Never go on an adventure without a hat.

"I'm alright," he said to Pappagallo. "Almost lost my lid, but I got your lady friend to thank for saving it. Looks like we're clear, those scavs are heading off. Think they're done for the day? Or going for help?"

"Can't be sure. It's hard to figure them out these days, they're getting desperate, unpredictable. Fuel, weapons, food, it's all running out and nobody's making more."

"Ain't that the truth, brother. Here, and everywhere else."

The ruins of Sojourn were visible now. With the Company designation of 'outpost,' one would imagine some dinky mining town with one street and half-a-dozen buildings, not the sprawling community that had grown around the place in its glory days. But decades had passed since Weyland-Yutani had shipped out and war after war had been fought over the leftovers of Sojourn since then, with the wasteland slowly taking what was left. It was just the bones left now, a great ghost town of broken buildings and machines rising out of the orange sand.

The approaching space vessel was visible too, just minutes away from landing now. It looked disappointingly small for an interstellar ship, not much more than a deepspace shuttle. The long wings and numerous booster rockets suggested a space tug or perhaps a rescue ship, which was more bad news for straight shooters looking for honest work. A ship like that should have plenty of fuel and equipment on board though, and that made her enticing prey for the crooked kind.

There was a wrecked vehicle on the outskirts, not far off their projected course. As they passed over the debris at the fringe of the ruined town, Pappagallo cautiously swerved just into visual range to get a good look. It was a ground rover, a wheeled civilian version of his own vehicle, with its nose driven into a decaying metal tower. The cab was pretty well shot up but the machine looked mostly intact otherwise; its pilot had probably been killed while it was moving at a low speed. There were no motion readings, nor any signs of life.

"That's a real fresh kill," the gunner observed, his voice deceptively casual. "Plenty left to scavenge there, doesn't even look like they got to that trailer pod. Either the bandits got scared off, or they dropped everything and raced for the starship."

Pappagallo was inclined to put his money on the latter. He steered to one of the main streets and throttled up, joining the race himself. Cautious flying was unnecessary now, for the roar of the vessel's engine was growing deafening and its thrusters were blowing a storm of sand all over this part of town. It was pretty unlikely that anybody would pay his little scout rover much heed in all this.

The starship coming down was pretty small compared to most, but it was a still a capital-scale craft, and that made it a bloody huge attention-getting machine. If the mercs were to help it survive the attentions of the folks around here, Pappagallo needed to hit the jets.

x x x x x

_Author's Notes:_

_Concerning the interactions aboard the Sotero, it isn't my intent to come off personally as a racist sexist jerk. That little blurb is written from the point of view of the crew, who have intrepidly borne some of humankind's oldest flaws into the depths of space. I'm not aiming for a political commentary on the whole America-Iraq situation either, I'm just introducing a couple of characters showing a bit of an ugly streak when they come across something unfamiliar to them, in this case a Muslim woman wearing a jilbab. (Which might also be called a burqa, or hijab, depending on where you're from.)_

_ -SA_


	4. Slow Ride Uphill

CHAPTER 4: SLOW RIDE UPHILL

_**Planet Cygnus Alpha, first satellite of Alpha Cygni a.k.a. "Deneb Minor" in the Cygnus Star Region  
Defunct Weyland-Yutani mining outpost "Sojourn," southeast shipping complex  
Ruins of secondary aerodrome, vicinity of launch pad 1**_

The motion tracker hissed and buzzed, and the two spacers watched and waited.

"There it is again. Bogey two o'clock left, in the storage yard," the gunner called in. "On foot between the silos. Hey, is that the tracker beeping?"

"Yep, cleared up a bit. Still some crap blowing in the air, but I see them. Estimate six tangos, holding steady," answered Pappagallo.

"Taking their time, aren't they."

"Yep."

"Any luck on the comms?"

"Nope."

The battered space vessel had landed on the fragmented surface of the main landing pad here, a relatively flat and wide open space, and and with no hostiles yet in sight, they had taken the opportunity to find cover before the blowing sand settled. Pappagallo had chosen to go high, nestling the rover amidst the wreckage atop the roof of a skeletal hangar overlooking the area. It was a decent spot, easy to see over a wide area and fairly well camouflaged from anyone below.

Hopefully, if the ship was attacked while they remained undetected, they had a chance to seize the element of surprise and ambush the ambushers. They would need every tactical advantage they could get, for it was now obvious that the vessel was an unarmed commercial boat, its civilian crew most likely incapable of aiding in their own defense. But as time passed and the only sign of motion remained at the furthest edge of the decaying aerodrome, the odds that they hadn't been spotted grew increasingly improbable; it was very likely that they were of the same band as the six-wheeler who'd seen them on the way in. It was now over twenty minutes since touchdown.

"Pops. I don't think they're advancing at all. I think we've been painted. Must be waiting for us to make the first move."

Within the rover's cabin, Pappagallo narrowed his eyes, and didn't reply. He touched a finger to his temple, thought things over. This wasn't going well. Typical desert dwellers were more than a little sun-touched, somewhere between dim-witted and deranged, and not known for alertness or patience. It was growing increasingly likely that these particular scavs were in fact seasoned wasteland raiders, the most rare and dangerous of the lot. They usually went after bigger prey like convoys or small settlements, and few lone travelers were unlucky enough to draw their attention. But for the old merc and his companion, it seemed luck was not on their side this day.

"Time's up," came from the gunner, short and to the point. Pappagallo saw it: the starship was extending a side ramp, and there were people on the boarding platform at the end.

Their offworld guests would be on the ground in a moment, and at their most vulnerable. Their choices were now to continue waiting for an ambush and hope that civvy casualties would be minimal if it happened, or to attack the suspected enemy position immediately and hope their air superiority would carry the day, or break cover to warn the visitors and perhaps work out a joint plan.

Pappagallo made his decision. "Let's go meet the newcomers," he told his companion. "If they lift off for a safer LZ then the job's done right there."

"Better punch it. They could be in sniper range of that scav nest right now. You know, we might make better peacekeepers with our guns unholstered," the man pointed out, as the rover's weapons began retracting and the roof panels unsealed in front and behind the cuppola's section.

The scout rover was designed with retractable topside covers, a smaller one over the pilot's compartment and a large one covering the whole rear bed. Armour was obviously thinner at those sections, but it allowed for rapid escape or deployment of soldiers and crew. The machine wasn't meant to be a battletank in any case, more of a well-armed utility vehicle that could run missions as an air transport or light APC if need be.

"Stow that smartgun too. They'll be spooked if they see all the firepower on this machine," said Pappagallo, standing up to look at the gunner directly as the cockpit's roof hatch slid open. "I don't want them thinking we have a load of troops in the back either."

"Hmm. Not a bad idea, but keep in mind the scavs will be just as relieved," said the gunner. He drew out a short-barreled heavy carbine from the sling on his back and set it by his side, but then paused as he was reaching to unlock the smartgun's turret rail. "Hang on, I've got an idea for some insurance."

Rather than stowing the topside gun, the man swiveled the weapon rearward and pointed it straight up at the crimson sky. He took off his widebrim hat and reached up to stick it on the muzzle, making sure to jam the downward edge of the brim securely between the barrel and the tip of the rangefinder. Then he turned and flashed an impish grin to Pappagallo, who was watching on with one eyebrow raised.

"Doesn't look so threatening now, does she? Just an idea your lady friend gave me when… uh… never mind. Anyway, with this setup I can let her loose in just a couple of seconds, and I've got my backup piece right here," he explained.

Pappagallo stared a moment, his icy gaze going from the gunner to the hat-sporting smartgun, then a faint smile of amusement started tugging at the corner of his mouth. He wasn't known as a man of mirth, but this was rather absurd. It was innovative enough, he supposed, just… odd.

Without further ado, he sat back down and powered up the rover. Within seconds, tattered sand-covered runways and landing pads were zooming below while dilapidated hangars and service buildings receded behind, and the big outworld ship loomed before them like some vast, beached leviathan.

x x x x x

As the mercenaries drew close, it became evident that this starship was in particularly bad shape. The hull seemed intact, but it was badly scorched and battered from many consecutive space flights and planetfalls without servicing. That could well be the norm of interstellar travel these days, but as it was, Pappagallo didn't like the odds of this machine getting back out to space in one piece.

No one shot at them as they crossed the distance to the ship, but he was less concerned about his armoured rover's safety as opposed to the folks completely exposed on that descending ramp. He noted that the space vessel's massive landing struts offered the side ramp some degree of cover from the scav position's line of fire, and as they neared the ramp he angled his vehicle to obstruct their firing arc further.

There were three people on the boarding platform, two men in civilian garb and another wrapped head to toe in dark cloths. He recognized the third as a woman; even that much heavy covering didn't quite mask her prominent curves. That gave him pause, for the sight of a female traveler was a rare thing on the frontier. These were dangerous waters for a lady to be sailing, most especially a curvy one.

"Alright, that's close enough!" one of the men barked. He had on a jacket emblazoned with the Company's fleet logo and the name 'USCSS Sotero,' and he pulled an autopistol from an underarm holster, brandishing the long-handled weapon at the rover as it touched down before the ramp.

Pappagallo looked at him, unmoved, and stepped partways out the side hatch with one foot on the sand to face him. "All friends here, Merchant Officer. Welcome to Cygnus Alpha," he said in cordial manner.

"You're not military, who the hell are you?"

"Just a couple of frontier spacers looking to make palaver," the gunner answered him, briefly turning from his watch on the distant silos. "You look new to these parts, so I'll tell you now: we have a rule here on the outworlds. Man pulls a gun, he better be ready to use it, because every spacer who sees him is going to draw their own steel. And believe me, everybody around here is packing. No one's going to be much impressed by another fella waving a piece, my friend."

To make his point, the gunner put his heavy carbine over the arm in casual pose, tapping the barrel on his shoulder in emphasis.

"Raiker, will you put that thing away? They would have shot us already if that's what they wanted!" the second man whispered sharply in the crewman's ear, who slowly lowered his autopistol but did not put it away. This one was a dapper looking fellow, well-dressed and mustachioed. A civilized type for sure, there was no frontier ruggedness about him. Turning to the mercs, he stepped off the ramp, raising an empty hand in greeting.

"I'm Henry, traveling salesman in women's garments and fine clothes of all sorts," he said, openly and affable. "You said you wanted to talk? I'm not in charge, but I can listen. What's to talk about?"

"Well, we'd work for you if you need a freelancer's service. A ticket off this planet would be even better. I might even be inclined to look at your wares," said Pappagallo. "But this isn't the time or place. There's some bad people near here looking to take what we would trade for, and they could be packing enough lead to hurt your tall ship here. I suggest you take off again and meet us at a safer place, and we can continue chatting there."

The woman, who had been quiet and watchful of the mercs up to this point, started to speak up. But the Company crewman, Raiker, interrupted: "I don't think so, Marshal Gunsmoke. Thanks for the warning, but we can take care of ourselves. We're not fucking about on this dustball anyway, we're just picking up something from the outpost and we'll be on our way."

"If you're thinking about hitting the 'secret' aerodrome vault for supplies, don't bother," warned the gunner without looking back at him. "Look around you, man. This town has been looted right down to the bolts and the wiring. Bandits and scavengers have been picking over the place for decades, there's nothing left but rusty scrap."

"You yokels think you found everything the Company hid away?" Raiker retorted. "I don't think so. 'Bad people' my ass, you want us to fuck off so you can find the vaults yourself! I'm not impressed by some asshole waving a pea-shooter either, pal. So before I get really pissed and break out our real firepower, why don't you go find yourself a nice shithole to…"

As if to deliberately silence the man's tirade, a rapid sequence of sounds occurred at that moment. First, an innocent-seeming pop in the distance, from the direction of the outlying silos facing the side of the rover, the direction the vehicle's gunner was watching the whole time. Then, a hiss. And then, a sharp clang, sounding like someone had tossed a metal wrench with all their strength against one of the great landing struts nearby.

Everyone on the ramp platform flinched. The two mercenaries did not.

"Sniper," the gunner remarked in the same sort of tone he might use to announce bad weather. The pop-hiss-clang happened again, inciting the alarmed newcomers to duck behind the massive hydraulic winch at the platform's side, but seeming only to amuse the gunner.

"He's wasting his ammo, he's got no angle on anything except me." He left it unsaid that from his sheltered position in the rover's armoured cuppola, he wasn't particularly worried about his own safety.

"Can you see him?" asked Pappagallo, conversationally.

"Yeah… yeah, there he is. Idiot with a long rifle, thinks I can't tag him right there on that high dome. Give me a second."

Bringing up his carbine, the gunner sighted down the short barrel and took three swift shots at the row of silos bordering the landing field. His weapon was a powerful one, and its report thundered over the field. At the largest silo several hundred meters away, clouds of needle-sharp antipersonnel flechettes peppered the upper area of the sniper's perch and whistled overhead, prompting a startled curse from the man positioned there.

"That should keep their heads down a while," said the gunner, then silently noted to himself: _Eight stingers in the clip. Five stings and six slugs on the belt. Wasting your own ammo, man. Avoid burst fire, shoot only at what you can hit._

"Are we in serious trouble?" Henry asked the starship crewman, trying to imitate the mercs' unperturbed demeanour. "Maybe we should land somewhere else like they say!"

"Fuck that," snarled Raiker, and touched the earpiece of his headset. "Rob, did you get all that? This rock ain't worth all this bullshit. Let's prep for lift-off and try Argus next."

"Officer Raiker, listen," the lady tried to break in, her tone urgent. "That would be ill-advised with the core…"

"_Bitch - get on the fucking ramp or get lost! Now!"_ Raiker shouted at her.

"Wait, wait! Miss? What was that about a core?" the gunner asked, looking back of a sudden. "Core of what, the sublight drive?"

The shrouded woman looked up at them with big luminous eyes of startling beauty, started to speak again and was again interrupted.

"Last call, toots!" the Company man snapped. "Get your wide ass on the ramp or go play in the sand, I don't give a flying fuck either way! You got five seconds before I hit the button!"

"Merchant Officer Raiker." Pappagallo's voice was soft, and cold as the depths of space. "The next time you open your mouth, I will shoot your teeth out the back of your head. Do you understand?"

Dav Raiker actually knew how to use a gun and wasn't hesitant about putting holes in people, and he twisted his mouth in a sneer. He started to bring up his own weapon, a scornful retort on his lips. But even though he had decent cover behind the ramp's hydraulic winch, something gave him pause.

The big redneck, whom he'd contemptuously dubbed Marshal Gunsmoke, had a gun holster on his right hip with a safety cover over the top. Raiker had a trained eye for detail, as any good pilot did, and he was pretty sure that when the Marshal first put his leg out of his flyer, that holster cover had been strapped closed and he had rested his right hand on the vehicle's door frame.

Problem was, the cover was open now, and the grip of the large black pistol in there was visible. Raiker had never taken his eyes off Gunsmoke for any longer than a fraction of a second, and he could have sworn the man hadn't moved since he first saw him. But now, just as he was about to flip him off, he realized the freebooter's gun was loose and ready in its holster and that right hand of his was hanging casually beside it. _Raiker had never seen that hand move_.

The tall prick had the deadest don't-give-a-fuck eyes he'd ever seen, and they were fastened squarely on him. Raiker was starting to get a very bad feeling about what could happen in the next five seconds. He shut his mouth.

"Good choice, friend. They call this man the Mad Dog of Koronis, piss him off and you'll see why," said the gunner, easing comfortably into the good cop role. "Sorry Miss, what were you saying just now?"

"Thank you," said the lady, startling Pappagallo for an instant with the warmth in her voice. It had been a long time since he'd heard a female voice so sincere and unafraid. The few women on Cygnus Alpha did not speak that way, if they spoke at all.

"I was saying just now that hyperspeed travel would be ill-advised with our core tritium cells so overtaxed," she explained. "I believe that the Sotero's exterior hull has degraded to unsound condition from our planetfall. The hull grid was haemorrhaging power trying to hold the spaceframe together, and by my estimate there is no longer enough output from her fuel cells to sustain the main drive at the same time. She can probably manage atmospheric flight, but she might not survive an orbital escape."

"You mean we could have been killed if we went back into space?" exclaimed a shocked and angry Henry, directed mostly at the Company man.

"Well look at that, Mister Raiker. The person you were so busy shouting down might have just saved your life," commented the gunner to the Sotero's pilot, who indicated his opinion of the woman's technical assessment with a derisive gesture

"Look, Raiker, we have to… er, could you let him speak, Mister, er, Mad Dog?" asked Henry, drawing a chuckle from the gunner. At Pappagallo's nod, the salesman continued: "We have to do something, and this place isn't safe. Why don't we just fly to somewhere safe on this planet, maybe buy some supplies and do some repairs, and then go for hyperspace?"

"Fuck that," was Raiker's curt response. "This is a freeport, there ain't anywhere safe here. Besides, that stupid cunt…"

The Company crewman stopped abruptly, as Pappagallo gently raised a finger, conveying a depth of menace disproportionate to such a simple motion.

"That… that woman doesn't know what she's talking about," he amended. "The Sotero's one hell of a tough bird and she's been through way worse. We'll make hyperspace just fine. It's the captain's call anyway, and he's as fed up with this place as I am. You can come for the rest of your charter or you can stay here, it's your choice."

"Oh yeah? So the lady doesn't know what she's talking about, huh?" Henry replied, getting even more riled. "If you two idiots knew what you were doing, we wouldn't be lost on the outer rim in the first place! And it's _her fuel cells_ slaved to your damn power plant, you think I don't know that? The hell with you, I'll take her judgement over yours any day!"

"Excuse me, Mister Mad Dog?" said the salesman, turning to the elder mercenary. "I'd like to hire you, if you're still offering. Could I charter your vehicle for a trip to the nearest safe settlement?"

"And could I as well?" asked the lady, looking up at him with her lovely shining eyes.

"Yep, can do," he nodded, and the gunner smiled and added: "We were heading somewhere like that anyway. Hop in!"

"Er, could you wait a moment? It's not just me, I've an assistant and six crates of merchandise to bring down. Wouldn't be much of a salesman without 'em, right?" said Henry apologetically.

"I also have possessions to retrieve from the ship, a CTAC size four container and a carry-bag," said the lady looking anxiously at the mercs' vehicle. "Can you accommodate us?"

Pappagallo glanced at his gunner, who returned the troubled look. The scout rover's rear bed could only handle about nine cubic metres worth of cargo at the most, but he couldn't ask these folks to leave their possessions behind. Regional currency was worthless on Cygnus Alpha, and without goods or high-demand skills to barter, they would soon be reduced to slaves, petty criminals or starving paupers, none of whom tended to live very long.

But with nine m-cubed for three people, half a dozen cargo crates and a coffin-sized container…

"We might have a problem," the old merc murmured to the gunner. "Yep," the younger man replied dryly, sounding rather like the elder.

x x x x x

The gunner could hear the side ramp lowering, it wouldn't be long before it reached the ground. But every second it was up there was a moment of vulnerability for the exposed crates and people upon it, and it felt like it was taking forever. Still, he figured that it probably felt far, far worse for the descending folks themselves.

He saw a flicker of motion at the decaying silos on the landing field's perimeter, atop a different silo this time. There they were, looking to duck his overwatch and take their best shot at doing some damage.

"Don't think so, lads," he murmured and the blast of his carbine again resounded over the field. The tiny heads peeking over the silo rim vanished, and he wondered if he'd scored a lucky hit. _Six stingers in the clip, five stings and six slugs on the belt. Watch the ammo, ace. That's all there is._

"Is that the lot?" asked the gunner as he heard the ramp touch down. He peeked back a moment now that they were relatively safe, and saw Pops and their new clients stepping off: the cloaked lady, the salesman Henry, and an unassuming man that he supposed was Henry's assistant. The ramp was loaded with several large cargo containers, but there was no cargo bot nor any one else to assist them.

"Yep," replied Pappagallo, but there was an edge to his voice unlike his usual dispassionate manner. "Are those scum making a move?"

"No, but if you feel like playing whack-a-mole…"

"Put the smartgun on autofire and get down here double time! That jackass of a captain is dusting off in _five minutes_ and he's not lifting a finger to help!"

"Sycorax shit,"the gunner swore, grabbing the cuppola rail and vaulting clean over the vehicle's roof. "Go go go!"

It seemed the ship's master was about to kick the tires and light the fires, skipping pre-flight prep and safety checks and returning to the skies while the engines were still hot. Hell, if he was allowing a scant five minutes before lift-off, it was doubtful he was doing any launch prep at all.

Working feverishly, the five spent two minutes and twenty-one seconds loading the first of the salesman's two crates and the woman's large and exceptionally heavy coffin-shaped container onto the rover's rear bed. Pappagallo distantly noted that the lady put in more than her fair share of work; she was pretty strong for her size. Halfway through, with four crates left, he called a halt as he realized his ominous prediction had been realized.

"Not enough room," said the gunner, grimly stating the obvious. The crates were just too tall, the rear compartment didn't have the volume to stack them all. It could take either four crates or two crates and the CTAC container, all arrayed flat on the bed, but the compartment wasn't high enough to stack the rest atop that and still close the roof cover. And if they tried to make the run through the ruins of Sojourn with the roof open…

"Henry, can you get by with two out of six?" asked Pappagallo, but the stricken look the salesman gave him was enough of an answer. As to their other options, abandoning the lady's sole possession of the CTAC container was out of the question, and there wasn't enough time to open the crates and fit their contents in separately.

"Forget it! Stack the rest and we'll figure it out later!" he barked. He had to shout to make himself heard now, for the Sotero's engines were spinning up and the roaring thrusters were already kicking up a sand storm all around them. The starship's blinding-bright landing floods and nav lights were blazing down through the blowing clouds, and considering they were directly underneath the great looming ship, it was quite the terrifying sight.

Two more precious minutes later, the rover was loaded up. By now the scouring dust storm was violent enough to cause pain to exposed skin, the din was almost earsplitting, and the unbearable heat radiating from the ship's jets had their clothes smouldering. Pappagallo, the lady and Henry crammed into the crew compartment, the salesman's assistant huddled in the cuppola, and the gunner was left exposed on the roof and clinging to the barrel of the smartgun for dear life.

Pappagallo turned the rover in the opposite direction from the silos and throttled up as fast as he dared. His visibility was nil with the billowing sand gusting everywhere he looked. He was driving blind, and he couldn't see above or below and had no idea of his altitude either. It was like flying through the Scyllan Nebula, nothing but raging red clouds in all directions. The old merc wrestled with the stick, feeling as though his vehicle was being blown sideways, and at one point there was a gut-wrenching jolt that felt like an impact with the ground. He could only hope that everyone was still aboard and unharmed.

A large dark wall materialized through the sandstorm. By its size, he figured it for the remnant of the aerodrome's east terminus, and he yanked at the stick in desperation as the rover was driven full-tilt toward the ruins. By some miracle that likely wasn't related to his piloting skill, he managed to steer his course between two of the large building structures, and there was another nerve-wracking impact as the rover struck a wall and came to a sudden halt. This turned out to be a blessing in disguise: there was enough of the terminus buildings still intact to offer shelter from the storm, and he put down on the sloping sand within the alley and took a deep breath as he collected his wits.

"Sound off! Everybody alright?" Pappagallo's voice boomed over the subdued roar of the wind. His nervous passengers reported their status, and it turned out everyone seemed more shaken up than anything else, even the gunner trapped outside. The latter's good spirits remained unshakeable; he reported that their 'lady friend' had somehow managed to save his hat a second time and he was thinking about proposing marriage.

It also turned out that their turn of good fortune extended to the rover's cargo. None of the upper crates stacked in the bed had been thrown off, though admittedly the wind had been mostly at their back. That fact caught Pappagallo's attention.

"They're still in? All four of them?" he said, more of a musing statement than a question.

"You're not thinking of… you are, aren't you?" said the gunner at the side door, sensing his intent.

"What? What's he thinking?" asked Henry, sounding a little less rattled now.

"We were just thrown around hard with the bed cover open and those crates stayed aboard," the younger merc answered him. "We can move just fine as we are, soon as the worst turbulence dies down. The dust will give us some cover too."

"Henry, I want you and your 'prentice in the bed ahead of the crates, let the gunner back in his turret," Pappagallo ordered. "Ma'am, you should stay in front with me, you can have the copilot's chair."

"Ladies first, huh," Henry said, grousing a little but smiling. "I don't mean to deprive you of her company Mister Mad Dog, but I could do you some good in that chair. I happen to know how to drive."

"You also happen to be larger and stronger than her," said Pappagallo, his voice brooking no room for argument. "If those crates shift forward, you two stand a better chance against being mashed. Move it."

If the lady had any feelings about her preferential treatment, she did not say. She simply observed, her beautiful eyes taking in every detail and betraying nothing of her thoughts.

In the crimson sky above, the cluster of blazing light from the Sotero's jets faded to a single bright star as she returned from whence she came. The roiling winds soon started to calm, and Pappagallo lifted off without saying a word and veered his machine out the alley into the swirling clouds. As it was, the dust was still too thick to let him return along their entry route by visual navigation, so the old merc simply checked his positioning system and turned to the general direction of North Cross city, and started off.

"Watch three-sixty, going weapons-hot," he notified the gunner, and flicked the switch on his joystick. "Stay alert," he said to the others. "The bandits won't let us off easy. If you see anything, say so."

There was no interference from the scavs at first, but there was no way of knowing if they were being followed. The rover's motion tracker was useless with all the particulate in the air, and it was easy to see phantoms hunting them in the formless clouds. A seemingly endless two minutes passed.

The small port hatch to the bed was pulled open, and the salesman stuck his head into the pilots' section. "Why are we moving so slowly?" asked Henry, his anxiety masked with irritation. "The engine wash from the Sotero's gone, let's take off and have done with these bastards!"

"We can't," Pappagallo said tonelessly. "The hover system only gives about a four metre ceiling and ten, maybe twenty klicks at full throttle."

"What? This is a flyer, use the bloody turbojets, man!"

"You don't understand, we can't fly because of the crates," the gunner explained, squatting down in the cuppola well behind the pilots' chairs to talk to Henry face to face. "Our aerodynamics are all messed up with the back roof open and those crates sticking out. That's why he wanted to ditch the ones on top, we'll stall out if we go to flight speed. We have to crawl out of here on the hoverjets, it's the only way to take everyone and all the cargo."

"Oh hell. Now he tells me," Henry groaned, turning to his assistant. "We're sitting ducks like this. Johann, how much of the stock can we lose and still…"

"Relax," Pappagallo broke in before the salesman could get too worked up. "This overloaded machine can still outgun and outmanoeuver any two-bit scav on the planet. We'll be out of here in a few minutes, just close that hatch and sit tight."

Another long minute later, the clouds of dust were mostly settled, the skeletal ruins of Sojourn rising up ghost-like from the murk. The gunner snatched his lid from the tip of the smartgun and put the widebrim back on as the hot sunlight began to shine through, and he brought the big weapon to bear on their course ahead. Their cover was gone.

There was a sudden explosive sound, a crash and tearing of metal off to the side. The gunner spun to face in that direction, smartgun primed and ready, and all but one of the people within the rover flinched.

"Easy," said Pappagallo, his deep voice turning soothing. "Building fell over. Just wind."

"A good wind will do that," the second merc agreed. But he did not look away from the direction of the noise.

"You new in North Cross, gunner?" Pappagallo asked after a time. The gunner smiled at his casual tone, a little surprised that the hardbitten old warrior was sharing friendly words.

"Yeah, just in from Shady Sands," the younger man replied. "You?"

"Junction. Any action up in Sands?"

"Nada. Zero. Zip. Nothing left to wrangle over. Any in Junction?"

"Nope. Same story."

"Same all over, huh." The gunner abruptly swiveled to face aft, squinted to try and penetrate the settling dust clouds. "Bogey on our six. Right side, peeking out an alley."

Pappagallo checked his motion tracker, which was mostly cleared up by now. There was a single signal, small and holding steady at the furthest edge of the tracker's range.

"Don't think so. Birdie," he said, calling it a no-threat, the opposite of a bandit. It was most likely a scout, unlikely to start taking potshots from that far off. Then the tracker started emitting a different set of bleeps started as another signal appeared, this one up ahead, and that got his attention.

"One o'clock high left," he notified the gunner. "Ladder hatch."

"I'm not in a good position, let him stick his neck out and…"

A slugthrower's staccato blast interrupted him, the sharp rat-tat-tat of a speed shooter, likely a makeshift autopistol. There were multiple impacts on the rover's forward section, on the armoured roof beside and in front of the gunner.

The gunner whirled halfway from the rear-facing smartgun, whipping his carbine out of his back sling like a swashbuckler drawing a sword, and fired one-handed at the shooter's muzzle flash. Near the top of the dilapidated comm tower ahead, the entire upper half of a rusty side hatch disintegrated in a spray of ripper flechettes, and the scant remnant of the structure's roof collapsed inward. The automatic gunfire ceased. In the fraction of a second since opening fire, the attacker had been allowed only four shots before the gunner's riposte.

_Five stingers in the clip, five stings and six slugs on the belt. Sure would be nice if I could get off a shot with this great ol' cannon instead of my own lead._

"Nil movement. Scratch one bandit, nice shot," said Pappagallo after a moment, keeping his tone cool to calm the frightened passengers. "How's your hull?"

"No breach. Scratched the paint a bit though," said the gunner, eyeing the smoking torn spot on his jacket's left shoulder.

"Good man. Keep sharp, we're almost out."

"Remind me why that's a good thing? At this speed, the open sands won't be any safer."

"You remember that downed wheeler on the outskirts?"

"Ah… that could be handy," the gunner replied approvingly. "Let's just hope these blokes don't get there first."

Several more minutes passed. The native wind of the wastes chose this moment to pick up where the Sotero had left off, adding a low, eerie moan to the hum of the rover's hoverjets, and drawing a quiet oath from Pappagallo. Its reception scrambled up yet again, the hissing motion tracker still managed to pick out an occasional contact flitting in and out at furthest range, but no closer than that. There was a sense of quiet menace in the empty streets, the certainty that they were being watched.

The crumbling buildings and machines began to give way to the near-disintegrated debris on the outskirts of the ghost town. Everything looked different from when the two mercs first came into Sojourn; the sand had been blown into different drifts and patterns about the ruins, and a dour haze coloured everything in view. Nonetheless, it didn't take long to see they were on the right track; the damaged ground rover came into view looking no different from when they'd first seen it.

"Everybody out," Pappagallo ordered, halting his vehicle beside its wheeled counterpart. "We need to move four crates and quick."

"Not you ma'am," he stopped the lady, who was about to hop out behind him. "I need someone watching the motion tracker. If you see anything through the fizz, let me know." Her indignant look fell on the back of the merc's head as he moved out; though he meant not to patronize her, he had no time for gentlemanly civility.

The gunner had jumped out quick as a flash, and was inspecting the ground rover as Pappagallo came up. "It doesn't look good. Controls are smashed," he reported. "The tow pod's empty, we can use that if I can't jury-rig a joystick or two."

"Forget the wheeler," Pappagallo ordered. "The pod's enough, let's get it hitched."

The gunner uncoupled the cargo pod without any problems and the four men wrestled it over to the air rover and locked it in place. From there they needed only to move the four topmost crates a couple of metres out the rear bed into the pod, but the old merc halted halfway through the job and held up a hand, eyes narrowed.

"The send-off party's here."

x x x x x

"Get back in the machine and hang tight!" the gunner barked to the two merchants. He was already scrambling to the roof turret: he too had heard the sound of a vehicle engine over the moan of the blowing wind.

The shrouded lady murmered an apology through the comm system, but it wasn't her fault for missing their enemy's approach. Whether through sheer luck or careful timing or both, they had come right at the moment when the rover's motion tracker was rendered useless by the resurgent wind.

The tall, silent figure of Piers Pappagallo walked around the side of his machine but made no attempt to enter. The ominous silhouette of a familiar spike-festooned vehicle was already emerging from the blowing sand, and dark figures were materializing on either side.

These were raiders all right, coordinated and well-equipped. They weren't angling for an immediate attack, not with this kind of approach, and he wasn't too surprised. This lot was smart enough to recognize dangerous prey, and too stubborn and ornery to let it go. If they wanted a showdown, Pappagallo didn't plan to disappoint.

The old merc faced them and waited, watching on as they spread out. Within his rover's turret, the gunner watched on as well, silently noting the near-indistinguishable figure taking position behind the remains of a segmented wall, another figure with what could only be a massive shoulder-mounted M5 in his arms, and the big one ahead of all the rest wearing glinting metallic chest armour or perhaps a multitude of metal bandoliers.

For a long moment, the outworld mercs and the desert raiders faced each other. The raiders had spread out in a wide dragnet in front of them, but were moving no closer. Pappagallo was still as a statue, his hand motionless beside his holster, and the gunner seemed to be half-asleep as he leaned comfortably back in the rover's cuppola, his carbine resting on his lap below the smartgun rail.

It always seemed to come back to this scene, Pappagallo reflected. The modern fighter that sighted on a confirmed hostile was meant to let loose straight away, and the hell with rules of engagement. Yet somehow, you always ended up facing off with somebody who meant to kill you, and time would seem to freeze as each waited for the other. It was something in human nature, he supposed, something to do with obsolete predatory instincts. It didn't matter.

"Our guns match yours," an amplified voice suddenly boomed out from the lead figure. "But we outnumber you. I feel kind, let you go today. But your cargo is ours now."

The figure tilted its head as one of its comrades leaned close. Then it added: "And so is your woman."

Somewhere inside, Pappagallo felt a vague unease as he considered the offer. It wasn't a bad one, all things considered. It was certain that there would be no employment to be had from these hapless outworlders, just a waste of his fuel and supplies. Likewise, an unclaimed woman on Cygnus Alpha was nothing but trouble, and even if he jacked the cargo himself, it was an even bet whether there was anything worthwhile in that crapload of luxury goods. So why the hell was he still here? What the hell was the point?

Beneath the faded brim of the USAAC Naval Fleet Command cap, the old merc's eyes narrowed against something other than the blowing sand. How long had he been on this sun-baked rock now? Sometimes, it seemed like he was getting as cynical and indifferent as every other hustler in these parts.

Pappagallo's arm blurred as the heavy M4G1 seemed to leap out of its holster into his hand, and his answer to the raiders' offer rang out over the wasteland wind. The silhoutte of the rocket launcher holder was the biggest form due to his weapon, and his was the first to vanish as he was blown off his feet into the storm.

The raiders countered with a maelstrom of firepower, but the blinding sandstorm was working against them now: staccato gunshots cracked as muzzle flashes blindly lit up the gusting murk, and hissing slugs flew all around the tall spacer without coming close.

He began to advance with his long strides, his measured, rhythmic shots the most telling of all as he targeted one sparking muzzle after another. His own weapon did not have a muzzle flash, and his aim was sure and deadly: one figure looked to be winding up for the toss of a flare or grenade, and he was the next to fall. Another was spitting fire through the haze with a trusty buckshot-spewing shotgun, and he quickly followed.

Then there was a sharper, familiar sounding crack above and to the side. Pappagallo dropped to a low squat behind a waist-high bit of wreckage as a heavier gunshot whistled uncomfortably close by: the raiders' sniper was on the hunt.

The gunner on the armoured flyer responded, and the smartgun's oddly melodious roar started up behind the crouching merc. Heavy armour-piercing rounds shrieked through the air, tearing through the nearby segmented wall like paper. There was no further action from the sniper.

The attacking smartgun then swiveled to the line of raiders, who dived and scattered away from its terrible stream of explosive AP rounds. Some of the scavs dodged too close to Pappagallo's semi-concealed position, and he made swift and deadly use of the opportunity.

Then another previously unseen heavy gun opened up from the top of the spiky wheeled vehicle. The younger spacer had revealed his position through the sandstorm with his searing smartgun burst, and Pappagallo could hear the impacts of the enemy cannon against his vehicle's armour. A high-powered vehicle mount was a serious problem: if it had enough ammunition, it could finish off the outworlders in short order.

The smartgun returned fire, but the old merc had had enough of this. He wasn't going to let this turn to a battle of attrition to see whose machine had the most ammo and the thickest plate. He pulled an IR flare from his belt, slid the finger-sized casing into the M4G1's undermount tube, sighted, and fired. It was quite unlikely that anyone in the enemy vehicle would hear or care about one more impact on their hull.

"Unit. Lock on active ping. Confirm." He waited a moment, cannon shells flying both ways just overhead, and then his vehicle confirmed his order with a single beep through his wire headset.

"Fox three, fox three. Confirm."

There was a deep, booming thud behind him, then the blazing flare of a seeker missile streaked above with a howl that momentarily drowned out the windstorm. And after the thundering explosion died down, there was no other sound than that of the storm.

A long moment passed. There were several scattered shots from much further away, then they were silenced by a distant amplified voice, urgent orders shouted in some obscure Yemeni dialect. The battle, having lasted less than a minute, was over.

Within the crew compartment of the military flyer, the woman watched with eyes widened with awe as the dark, tall figure of the elder warrior gradually emerged from the blowing sand, looming against the flames of the burning raider vehicle. He was walking as evenly as ever, one arm up to hold his cap snugly on his head.

"My God," said Henry to his stunned assistant in a shaky voice. "It's like he stepped out to take a leak."

"So that's it then?" the younger mercenary asked quietly as the elder eased his lanky frame inside and shut the hatch.

"Yep."

Pappagallo actually estimated that most of the raiders had survived the skirmish, including the leader, and could well regroup. But they'd had their noses bloodied pretty good, and he figured to be long gone before they got any ideas. As soon as the rover was out of the storm and away from Sojourn, there would be one more quick stop to properly load the cargo pod, and then it was clear skies all the way back to North Cross.

"Not a bad day's work," the gunner summarized with a wry smile. "Not bad," Pappagallo echoed sourly, noting what was left of his ordnance.

"My God," Henry said again in a whisper, shaking his head. "My God."

x x x x x

_**North Cross City, southeast open district  
Haddock's Free World trading post, rear landing field**_

Piers Pappagallo stood leaning against his vehicle on a dusty landing field, one that wasn't particularly different from those of a hundred backworld tradeshacks he'd been to.

He watched on as the shop hands unloaded Henry's crates; it seemed he had something in his six crates of clothes that had caught Haddock's eye, enough for the miserly trader to send his boys out to help in any case. The outworld clothier was getting some fine service today.

"Mr. Mad Dog!" There was the man himself, bustling over with a bottle of hooch and a big grin. "Mr. Mad Dog, I'd like to buy you a drink! And your friend too!"

Pappagallo raised an eyebrow as Henry offered him the small bottle, proclaiming that it was all the way from Old Earth. The gunner, who was standing against a nearby docking strut, stopped his count of his remaining shells and shook his head with amusement. If that bottle was from the Terran system, then Henry had somehow found himself a shot of cheap booze that had traveled the length and breadth of human civilization.

The old merc accepted the liquor; it wasn't Haddock's worst. "That fight was the most amazing thing I've ever seen," Henry said, earnestly. "You two really are the best of the best, and I don't know how to thank you."

Pappagallo would have preferred if Henry had an ingot or a power cell to thank him with, but he supposed the drink would do. The job wasn't a complete bust after all; the salvaged cargo pod was a handy tool that he'd never seen available for trade on Cygnus Alpha.

"Where are you from?" Henry asked him in affable kind. The merc didn't answer, just took a sip and casually pointed a thumb back over his shoulder. Junction was back that way somewhere, and beyond that he didn't care to say.

"Where are you headed?"

Pappagallo passed the bottle to the gunner and then silently pointed ahead, toward the fireball of Deneb slowly descending below the horizon. He didn't much care if he was coming off cold; the man's grateful chipperness was getting irksome. It was late and he was tired, he figured he'd hole up here tonight then head back out to Dean's on the morrow.

"Thanks for saving our lives, mister," said Henry's young assistant as he came over, and to that the old merc nodded and touched the brim of his cap. Johann didn't speak much but made his point with few words when he did, and that was all right by him. "Henry, Mr. Haddock's called our cab, it's time to go."

"Okay, just a minute," Henry said, accepting the bottle from the more gracious younger merc and taking a deep swig. "That was really something to see, you know? I'll never forget it if I live to a hundred!"

"The cab's here, Henry."

"Hold on Johann, I'll be there! Anyway, nobody's going to believe all this, you know?" said Henry, and took another gulp, seeming to relish the idea of sharing a drink with real warriors. "It's like something out of a holovid, two heroes and a bandit showdown in the desert storm!"

"Henry, the cab's waiting! Come on!"

The merchant gave his assistant an annoyed look, then half-turned to thrust the bottle back into Pappagallo's hand. "You keep this, you earned it. I'm gonna tell 'em all anyway, you know? People gotta know about the Mad Dog of Koronis! They'll come to you for business, and they'll think twice before messing with ya! Thanks again, and good hunting!"

The tall spacer watched on as the exasperated Johann grabbed his boss and hustled out to the front of the trading post, and the younger man snorted with laughter as Pappagallo took off his cap and ran his fingers through his greying hair, an obviously rare gesture of amusement from the unemotional merc.

"Looks like a legend in the making, eh?"

Pappagallo looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "The 'Mad Dog of Koronis?'"

"Hey, I had to come up with something impressive on the fly, give me a bloody break man! And besides, every barren asteroid cluster deserves its own wild animal, don't you think? What are you called, anyway?"

"Pappagallo. I'm fine with Pops. You?"

"O'Hara. Make it Harry," he said with a slight grin. "So where are you headed?"

Pappagallo shrugged; beyond Dean's place, one way was as good as the next. "Drifting south, probably. And you?"

"Just drifting." The two mercs silently stood together a moment, then headed their separate ways, the elder to the adjacent trading post, the younger out to the streets. That was all that needed to be said.

From within the trading post, Eve Owan of Naraka Prime watched from an open window. Even though they were the first people she had met on this planet, she was convinced that she knew them for what they were.

They were the right men.

x x x x x

_Author's Notes:_

_My bro Mist Archon has a saying for how he likes combat in literature: fast, deadly, and over. Yeah, that's how I like it too, but the chapter still ended up bigger than all the rest. Hmph. That always seems to happen when I put battle down on paper: a 30 second fight and its buildup ends up bloating 30 pages and so forth. That can really bog down the pace, I hope I managed to keep it quick and exciting here._

_Oh, and I really didn't like the chapter name I came up with, but just couldn't think of anything better. This is the redux of the 'ride to Boot Hill' scene from Magnificent 7 after all. "Riding the Storm" was my other choice for a title, but gawd, that sounds so cliche'd._

_"The Gunslingers" is the title of the next chapter, and I'm not at all uncertain about that name. Thinking realistically, I hope to have it done in January. See you then, and Merry Christmas!_

_ -SA_


	5. The Gunslingers

CHAPTER 5: THE GUNSLINGERS

_**Planet Cygnus Alpha, first satellite of Alpha Cygni a.k.a. "Deneb Minor" in the Cygnus Star Region****  
North Cross City, Southeast Open District  
Haddock's Free World trading post, sideyard storage cabin 3**_

The tall mercenary in weathered clothes shut the door of the makeshift guest room and sat down on the makeshift bunk. The place was a pretty long way from homey; Haddock only allowed lodgers in the first place because of his chronically empty storerooms, and he overcharged those who stayed. Still, it was as safe a hole as any in North Cross.

Piers Pappagallo drew his heavy pistol from the holster and set it down beside the bag of packing fiber meant to be the pillow, then paused with his hand still on the weapon. There it was again.

He held up both his trembling hands and stared at them a long moment, then clenched his fists hard, tried to hold them still. The shakes only came on when he relaxed, in the evening generally. But there was no denying that they were getting worse. And he knew full well that when they came on in combat, it would be the end of his life as a freespace gun, one way or another. After a time, he lowered his hands and put it from his mind. Nothing he could do about it for now, no point in fretting about it. He started to unbuckle his gunbelt with some difficulty, and that was when the knock came at the door.

In an instant the shakes were gone and his pistol was back in his hand, without his even thinking about it. He was already on his feet facing the door before he caught himself. It was a soft knock, and there was only one person in the tradeshack who'd been watching him with any real interest. He already knew who it was, and chided himself for being a nervous old fool as he holstered his gun.

"Come in ma'am. _Salaam alaykum_," he said, easing himself back down on the bunk as the veiled woman from the USCSS Sotero opened the door. She didn't reply at first, just entered and looked at him with her big lucent eyes.

"_Salaam alaykum_, Mister Mad Dog," she said after a moment, and it was his turn to give a moment of silent treatment. That wasn't how the Islamic greeting went.

Pappagallo pushed the bedside crate toward her and gestured for her to seat herself, then he slumped back with his head on the bunk's crude pillow, his cap sliding forward over his eyes. To the woman, it seemed for a moment as though the old merc was ignoring her and dozing off, but then he spoke:

"What can I do for you, miss?"

"It's Owan. My name is Eve Owan," she answered him. "I never got to thank you properly sir. It was very brave and kind of you to help us like you did."

Owan wasn't certain, but it seemed as though the man gave her a barely perceptible nod. This was an atypical social response and an awkward beginning to a conversation, but it was also possible that the frontier mercenary was offering her a gesture of trust by letting his guard down this way.

"I believe you are a person I can trust, and I do not think there are many others like you on this world," she said. "You mentioned earlier that your services were available for hire. I need your help again Mister Mad Dog."

"I'm Pappagallo," he said, without looking up. "My callsign is Pops, not 'Mad Dog'. This is a troublesome world Miss Owan, what particular business do you need help with?"

"It is not myself personally in need of assistance," Owan replied. "It is the people I represent, the people of my world."

Something clicked together in Pappagallo's mind, something about this woman and her precise sort of speech and manner. "You're the one I talked to on the short-wave. The one looking for pilots, right?"

"Yes, for a mission in the Naraka system," she said, realizing with some surprise that his was the first Denebi voice she had spoken to. "My colony needs combat pilots, urgently. A raider fleet has gained control of planet Sanjiva, and they are taking so much in resources and lives that…"

"Hold up. You're from Naraka?" Pappagallo broke in. "That's a company post. If you need help, why haven't you contacted your security?"

"We have," said Owan, her voice growing strained. "But it has been over forty months since the occupation began, and Weyland-Yutani still has not sent any armed forces or supplies. They promise aid when we can reach them, but we do not believe they are capable or willing to assist. In the meantime, the raiders are claiming so much of our mineral isotopes that the colony reactor is threatened, and they are kidnapping and murdering so many people that we cannot meet the quotas they demand. Our community will soon be unsustainable at this rate, and the raiders will not stop until there is nothing left."

There was a moment of silence, then the freelancer tilted the brim of his cap upwards and glanced at her. "What kind of force strength are we talking here?"

"The raiders possess a Kenamor-class patrol cruiser as their command ship, equipped with missiles and bombardment weapons and at least two armed UD-22 Navajo transports, crew strength unknown," Owan reported. "The surface occupation force is an estimated forty personnel, with at least twenty-five aerovehicles and a mobile base hovership, all heavily armed. Surviving colonial forces consist of approximately 200 civilians, eight available aerovehicles, and one Odyssey-class survey ship, armament limited to personal firearms and mining explosives."

"We outnumber them, but we need fighting ships and soldiers," she went on when Pappagallo didn't respond. "We cannot withstand their firepower, we have already tried and failed. Can you help us Mister Pappagallo?"

"Maybe," he said after a time. "I can look. But it won't be easy to find anyone with the fuel to get to your system."

"We thought of that," she answered him. Optimism was beginning to rise in her voice: the mercenary had not refused outright. "The biohazard signs on my cargo case were a ruse, it is actually an ion safety container. I have brought seven grade-C microfusion cells with me, enough for at least three light starships. In addition, we can…"

Owan faltered a moment. The mercenary pilot had pushed the brim of his cap all the way up, and his unnerving icy-blue eyes were fixed on her. She had his full attention now.

"Naraka Prime is an organically rich planet," she went on. "We can feed our visitors with fresh produce and seafood, rich in nutritional elements and flavour that synthetic foodstuffs lack. Here, this was kept fresh in my ship's hydroponic unit. It's called a waterplum."

Pappagallo accepted the bright green fruit she passed to him, somewhat resembling a Terran mango. He detected a faint sweet scent from it that made his stomach clench hard. It had literally been years since he had eaten anything that wasn't freeze-dried, and he had to fight the urge to devour the fruit on the spot; his body was telling him 'GIMME' in no uncertain terms.

"That is not all," said Owan. "We have no intention of providing only the fuel to reach us. We have managed to conceal a small cache of fuel cells in the colony base, and they are for anyone who helps us. There are twenty cells altogether, all we can safely spare."

The mercenary slowly sat up and settled his piercing gaze on the woman, studying what he could see of her face.

"Do you know what you're getting into?" Pappagallo asked, looking at her with narrowed eyes. "With those troops on the ground, it won't be all long-range fire-and-forget. It's going to get bloody, real bloody, on both sides. Are your people all in agreement over this?"

"Yes we are," she replied, her voice firm. "As I said, we have engaged them before, and paid dearly for it. Those monsters have slaughtered almost every male colonist on the planet, and every remaining Sanjivan is more than willing to exact vengeance for our husbands, fathers, and sons."

"It's only women and girls left, then?" asked the old merc, quietly. She nodded: "That is their leader's idea of pacification. He feels that females are not a threat to his dominance. We intend to prove him wrong."

There was another long pause, and Owan's nagging doubt returned, the possibility that her entire strategy along this line was flawed. Even as advanced as civilization had become, there were still some places where Terran males considered all females inferior, and Cygnus Alpha was a long way from civilized.

"All right," Pappagallo finally said. "I'll see what I can do."

"How much time do you require?" Owan asked, her voice quick with eagerness. "We need you as soon as…"

"Hold up, Miss Owan. I didn't say _I_ was going," the merc interrupted. "I'm just going to pass the word around, see if any shooters sign on."

"You… do not wish to enlist?" she asked, her enthusiasm waning. Based on the limited data she had gathered, it seemed highly improbable that there existed another Denebi mercenary with the skill and compassion this man had displayed.

He settled back, let his cap slide down partway over his eyes. "I don't like working in ICC space, and I don't like your Company. Plenty who do though. If any good ones show up, I'll send them your way. Good night, Miss Owan."

Pappagallo's sense of unease returned at having to turn the woman down, but he didn't qualm. He'd been burned one too many times by a sweet-sounding Company pitch, and he wasn't planning to get caught with his pants down again.

"But… you do have a ship, do you not? And space combat experience as well as terrestrial?"

He didn't reply. She didn't say anything for a time, and he started to grow vaguely irritated that she was still here; he was really looking forward to that sweet-smelling fruit.

"There is one more reason to come to Naraka Prime with me," the Sanjivan finally said. There was a softness to her tone that Pappagallo didn't care for. This was about the time when the women came out with the pleading and the sob stories, if they were going to go that far. He hoped not, he'd been starting to like this one.

"We have been living difficult lives since our men were killed three years ago," she said. "For most of us, there is little chance for any kind of emotional release, and no chance of male companionship. Thus, any male freelancers who come to Sanjiva will be met with open arms."

"Including mine," she finished amidst a quiet rustle of falling cloth, and Pappagallo suddenly understood what she was getting at and sat bolt upright, his cap falling from nerveless fingers. So that was why Owan's lush curves were so discernable through that muffling shroud. Aside from her shoes, she wasn't wearing a damn thing underneath. The old merc stared at her, his pale eyes no longer icy and distant for the first time since she'd met him, and she gave a coy smile and turned one way and the other so he could look at her from every angle.

The Sanjivan looked suprisingly young, and Pappagallo's eyes drank in the sight of her, lingering on the rich golden sheen of her sleek and hairless body, the lighter gold of the downy hair on her head, the elegance of her lovely face and large tawny eyes, the pale golden tips of her full breasts, the startling bright-pink cleft in her glossy golden pubis, the slight points to the tops and lobes of her ears, the pronounced webbing between her long golden fingers. Her sub-race had changed to suit their watery homeworld, but the minor physiological differences didn't change the fact that Pappagallo was looking at what was probably the prettiest little thing on the frontier.

"Well… long way from Alpha Boötis, aren't you," he said slowly, controlling his breathing with some effort. He was an unemotional man in his middle forties, he reminded himself, probably double that age with all his years in cryosleep. But goddamn… it had been a good while longer than three years since he'd been with a woman himself, and this was a bloody _Arcturan_.

"Stop," he said as Eve started to come over to him, and she stopped, momentarily frozen by the force in his quiet voice. "That's a dangerous game you're playing, miss. If I was absolutely any other man on this planet, you'd have a nerve collar 'round your neck before your clothes hit the floor."

"That was my logical surmise as well, and since you have not tried to accost me, my assessment of you was accurate. I would do this for no other man on this planet," she answered, somewhat to his amazement. Here he was, getting lectured with logic by a naked young woman trying to seduce him.

"I said stop," Pappagallo said sharply, but this time it didn't stop her approach, and he stood up and seized her arms to hold her back. "I also don't like getting involved with my clients, and I don't respect women who fuck to get what they want."

Eve was stronger than a woman her size ought to be, but the merc's hands were like polysteel vices and her brief struggle against him was futile. She submitted and went still, staring up at him with her big gorgeous eyes both defiant and desperate.

"I do not need your respect, Terran," she said, her voice precise yet thick with barely restrained emotion. "I need your help, for the sake of Naraka Prime. Look, do you want me as your concubine? Do you want _all of us?_ I promise you, we can make arrangements… we are even willing to offer our emergency reactor cells if that is what you want for this task. We offer this freely, everything we have. _But we need you_."

The tall, impassive man held her at arms length with his icy eyes on hers for a very long, quiet moment. Owan gazed back at him unflinching, but inwardly her feelings and thoughts were racing, flying through one despairing simulation after another. She knew her calculations were no longer rational, yet the probability that she was facing the end of her mission seemed vast and imminent.

But then the mercenary's gaze and grip began to soften, and her breath stilled.

"I've been offered a lot in my line of work," he said, his words soft and musing, seemingly to himself rather than her. "But never everything."

"So you shall come to Naraka then?" asked Owan, slowly, breathless with hope.

"I didn't say that," Pappagallo repeated, but the usual indifferent timbre was conspicuously absent from his voice. He released her and sat back down, cleared his throat and pointed casually to her discarded clothing, and she hurriedly gathered her cloak around her, her sudden embarrased modesty rather endearing to see.

"Maybe I will, depends on who else signs up," he elaborated, then held up a hand as she started to protest. "But I'll do the hiring personally. If there's a crew I can put up with on this rock, I'll get 'em together and head out with you. And if not, you'll still get the best of the lot. Two cells up front and whatever's left after muster, that's the deal."

"Agreed," she said at once, even though the price was outrageous for the potential lack of service. Time was of the essence, and she was quite certain that she wouldn't find a better bargain for this degree of promptness and personal safety. "But I wish to see the hiring process and participate in the choice of candidates."

"All right," Pappagallo consented after a moment's thought, somewhat to her surprise. "Just as long as you're willing to take a better disguise. It's still too obvious you're a woman under there, and if you're really a Muslim, then I'm the pope."

With the particulars concluded, Owan found herself being politely but firmly ushered out for the night. However, she paused at the door for one last detail.

"Mister Pops?" she asked, which got a raised eyebrow from him. "How are you going to judge these gunfighters? How can you be sure a candidate is worthwhile?"

"There are ways," was all he said, his dispassionate mien returning.

Eve's doubt surged at that, and she again wondered if she had made a miscalculation in trusting this unfeeling mercenary. Such was part and parcel of the definition of the word "mercenary," after all. But just seconds after the door closed, her sharp hearing registered the sound of a loud, juicy crunch from within the room, together with a muffled deep-voiced expletive of pure delight. She clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle her squeak of laughter, the first time she had genuinely laughed in a very long time.

The man was human after all, and that improved the odds immeasurably.

x x x x x

_**North Cross City, Eastside Dome3  
Storage District Tau 3, unused warehouse interchange**_

The eight-wheeled crawler pulled to the side of the overhead interchange lane and halted. It remained there for several minutes while the automated turret on its roof swiveled this way and that, playing its searchlight over the twenty warehouse pods of the dark and cavernous storage district. There were a couple of storage units still fully intact and functional, but the place had otherwise fallen into disprepair, the catwalks and elevator towers between the huge pods looking dangerously rusted and rickety.

The search beam eventually halted on one of the warehouses, lighting up the serial and section numbers on the side of the pod. The beam widened, flooding the area around the pod as it did one last search pattern, then it shut off, leaving the place barely lit with a single functioning roadlamp a distance away. The side door of the vehicle opened and a big man stepped out, wearing a light full-body armoursuit of military make, and holding a large and menacing rifle aimed and at the ready. He made his way down the adjacent skeletal-looking metal stairs and onto the darkened catwalk, his steady footsteps interspersed with the quiet clicking sound of the rifle's motion tracker.

The man stopped at a junction where the catwalk led to a vehicle ramp adjoining his targeted warehouse pod. A small prefabricated building had been set up beside the closed cargo airlocks, and a plate labeled "FORMAN" was over the swing-door entrance, clearly legible to the man's low-light enhanced visor. The door was open a crack, and a low light flickered within from a buzzing overhead neon tube. There was a faint chirping sound from the man's motion tracker now, registering a slight air differential within.

"Whoever's in there can come out with hands up, or I'm gone," the man growled through his helmet mike. "I am not putting up with this bullshit."

"Hold your fire, one man coming out slow," came a deep voice from within the door. The strip lighting within the foreman's shack came on fully, and a lamp over the hanging sign lit up and bathed the ramp with clear light. Then the door opened and the lanky figure of Piers Pappagallo stepped out, his hands over his cap.

"Pops!" said the armoured man in startled recognition. Lowering his rifle, he unclasped his helmet and yanked it off, revealing a rugged, vaguely oriental face with a distinct spacer's tan. "What the hell, man!"

"Hello, Straight," said the old merc, his craggy features softening with a slight smile. "If I knew you were still on Deneb, I would have called you first thing. It's good to see you, flyboy."

"Good to see you, old man," said the one called Straight, reaching out to clasp Pappagallo's hand. "What's with this 'no-man's land' crap?"

"You must have heard. I'm hiring guns for a rush job, and this little farce was one way to cull the guppies from the sharks."

"Anybody else here? I thought I picked up something else on the scope."

"Just another rotter next door, poor bastard. It's safe here for now."

"Let's talk then. Sure I heard about the job, something about stomping 'rats in some frontier camp, right?"

Pappagallo led the way into the abandoned foreman's office and pulled up a crate behind the single dilapidated desk, where a steaming autoheat mug stood beside a pair of cups and a small datapad. Straight accepted a coffee but chose not to sit, and listened closely as the old merc laid it out.

"It's a tough little war, with a pirate outfit on Naraka," he explained. "One frig with a couple of jets up top, and a forty-man op on the ground. There's two hundred colonists against, but the 'rats outgun them badly and the Company's hung 'em out to dry."

"Only one cap-ship? Alright, what's the pay?"

"Two grade-C cells, few more on arrival. They have good food and clean air, and there's a lot of lonely widows in wait if you're game for it."

The man was silent a moment as he thought it over, and Pappagallo waited patiently. Eventually, Straight looked up and shook his head.

"Sorry, Pops. I'm after bigger fish than a lone-frigate outfit, and I'm headed for the mid-rim, not the outer. I'd do it anyway if the cells were good, but C-grades make for a slow trip back, and my mark would be long gone by the time I cleared the frontier."

"Besides, widows ain't my thing," he said, his voice growing cold. "Too close to home."

"Good hunting then." Pops said, as the pilot donned his helmet and turned to the door.

"Good hunting yourself, old man. Hope I see you again sometime."

Pappagallo touched his cap brim in farewell, and the pilot did the same with his helmet. Moments later, the engine of the crawler revved outside, and the man called Straight was gone. Pops watched from the door as the tail lights receded into the darkness, then he turned as the back room door opened and the "rotter" came out.

"No luck then," said Eve Owan from beneath her leper's rags. "A pity, that one seemed highly competent."

"That's the problem," the merc mused. "That's always the problem with high-risk jobs: the good ones don't want 'em, and we don't want the rest. And that one was good, too good for us. Your band of raiders is just a street gang as space criminals go, and Straight hunts the big game, the kind with battle fleets and armies."

"Do you know him well?"

"As well as any," said Pappagallo without emotion. "Enough to know he's gonna get his ass killed sooner or later. Only question is how much scum he takes on his way out."

There was little more to be said. Owan joined his vigil as she waited for the next contender, occasionally rubbing the irritated skin of her joints. Her new disguise chafed but was undeniably effective, and Pappagallo had assured her that Denebi necrosis was harmless to Arcturans and the original owner was long past his infectious stage anyway.

Some time later, Eve looked up as she heard someone approaching outside.

"Back to your hidey-hole, but don't get your hopes up," Pappagallo warned, having spotted the newcomer already. "This one's a scrub. No cover, no weapon drawn, making enough noise for two. And look at that idiot sword. Big enough to trip him if he tried to run. He better have one hell of a ship."

Owan retreated to the back storeroom, and the old merc turned down the light. Minutes later, a deep but youthful voice spoke from outside.

"Hey there, I'm looking for a Pappagallo. Anyone by that name?"

"Sure," answered the old merc from within the shack. "Come on in."

The door was flung open as the outsider strode in, seemingly intent on making a flashy entrance. From his place beside the doorframe, Pops flicked on the light. The newcomer looked about the empty office then turned to look behind at the direction of the click, and he froze as he found himself staring down the barrel of the old merc's gun.

"Whoa there, spacer. All friends here, no call for that," said the newcomer hastily, raising his hands. In the back room, Eve froze as she heard his voice clearly. The voice was too young, filled with high-spirited energy, but the similarity was uncanny nonetheless.

"Sorry friend," Pappagallo apologized, holstering his gun. Another test failed, he noted silently. "Just making sure you weren't trouble, that's all."

"I'm no trouble, just looking for a job" said the young man, flashing a brilliant smile. "So you're Pappagallo then? I've heard you're looking for men."

"That's right," the merc answered as he looked him up and down, "men with ships and guns and the savvy to use them." This was a sharp-looking bloke, with a long black ponytail and stylish clothes to match his handsome features, bearing sleek weapons in his shoulder scabbard and gunbelt.

"I've no ship, but plenty of savvy. I'll take care of your problems in or out of the cockpit, just give me the stick."

"Maybe," said Pappagallo slowly. "So you can use all that iron you're carting around?"

"Try me," the lad invited him, reaching backward over his shoulder to pat the long handle of his blade.

"Sure. How fast is your draw?"

"Fast enough to save me bullets if you try anything this close," he grinned.

"Alright. Clap your hands."

The young fellow gave him a tolerant kind of look, the kind used to humour geezers harping on their glory days. He held up his black-gloved hands and did as he was asked.

"Faster," Pappagallo urged, provoking another 'oh fine, Grandpa' sort of look. "Now fast as you can."

On the last clap, the old merc surged forward, his gun hand flashing from his holster.

The lad found himself holding Pappagallo's gun barrel, the snout pointed straight to his middle. He froze, staring down, the colour draining from his pretty face. The old merc held his stance a moment to let it sink in, then pulled away and re-holstered his pistol.

"Your turn," the merc said flatly. "Draw."

The lad flinched as Pappagallo clapped right in front of him, callused hands blurring to produce a slap as sharp as a gunshot. He reached back to finger the haft of his long katana, then lowered his hand near his pistol-grip instead and readied himself, then he flinched again as the old merc clapped even faster and louder. He looked into the merc's ice-cold eyes, his own gaze defiant and furious and yet quailing like a panicked beast. And then just like that, he whirled about and strode out the shack, slamming the door behind him.

Pappagallo opened the window a crack and watched the man go. Green, and a hothead, he concluded. There were always plenty of those in this bloody business, even though they were usually the first to drop.

"Space is littered with bits and pieces of that fellow's ilk," he murmured, not turning to face her as Owan came in. "Young, proud, and reckless. We're better off without him."

"Did he have long hair? A scarred face?" asked Eve. Pappagallo looked to her then, noticing her troubled tone.

"Ponytail, yes, but no scars. Know him?"

"No… he just sounded like… someone else. You didn't ask him any questions about his experience, why not? And what was that about his draw?" she asked, changing the subject.

"The draw was a test, but not of his speed," he replied. "Quick-draw is almost useless in modern warfare, but on the frontier, everybody's in love with the romance of it. All he had to do was say 'No, stop wasting my time,' and I'd have given him a chance from there. No surprise that he failed. I'd pretty well made up my mind anyw-"

The merc stopped mid-word, the knock at the door interrupting him. In an instant, his gun was back in his hand and he was crouching beside the door. Owan was just as alarmed, and scuttled behind the desk. Whoever was at the door, they moved as quiet as a cat, and had somehow evaded Pappagallo's watch on the only way in or out of the dome.

"Come on in," he said. There was a deceptive calmness in his voice. There was no reply, but the door swung outward and opened, revealing… nothing. No one came in.

The merc had on his eyepiece now, but couldn't see anything from his angle on the door. The tides had turned all of a sudden, and it felt like he was the rookie on the hotseat. If zone control was lost, the protocol was to fall back along their prearranged escape route on the double, but something gave him pause.

Putting up his gun, Pappagallo cautiously poked his head past the side of the doorframe and scanned the area around the ramp. Seeing neither heat traces nor movement, he put out a leg and checked all visual quadrants, looking left, right, and high around the foreman's shack.

"No tricks please, Pops," said the smiling man lounging against the railing, his hands raised and open.

"Brinnlitz," Pappagallo exclaimed. "You sneaky bastard!"

"Getting rusty, old man. You used to sniff me out every time," said the one named Brinnlitz. He was a black man with a gentle-looking face, his skin as dark as his loose-fitting clothes, and he had a long, slender scope-rifle leaned against the rail beside him.

"What are you doing here?" asked the merc, holstering his gun and removing his eyepiece.

"Just watching. Watching you setting your little trap and playing with the cowards and morons drifting in. I'm wondering about this job you got lined up, you don't usually turn away decent cannon fodder like that. So am _I_ good enough for you?"

"You should be asking if the job's good enough for you," replied Pappagallo. "Babysitting civvies, bad odds against, and the pay's just a couple of C-grades and a bite of fresh food. Not the best game for a pro."

"In case you haven't noticed, you're the only game in town. All that's left are little pissant gang wars and hit jobs, and those bore me to death. I need some fresh meat, my friend."

"Is that so," said the old merc. He was watching Brinnlitz closely now, and his voice had gone cool. "How bored are you these days, Hans?"

"Not enough to go stir-crazy," said the man, putting up a hand in a reassuring manner. "I'm fine, won't make any trouble. Just give the order and I'll do my job, I swear. Besides, who's going to watch your arse if it ain't me? Takes a sneak to catch a sneak, and you won't find many better than me."

"Don't know that I'll need a sneak. It's pilots I'm after," said Pappagallo, but his words were hollow and they both knew it. There was no such job as one that was better off without a sneak.

"I'm holed up at Whistler's. Wire me when you're ready, I'll be at Dean's place inside the hour." said Brinnlitz, not bothering to acknowledge the old merc's half-hearted subterfuge. "Good luck finding your pilots, but I wouldn't bother with this farce if I were you. There's nobody here worth a shit besides the ones you already know. Might as well take it straight to them at the 'drome."

The dark-clad man stood up and slung his rifle properly over his back as he made to move on.

"That's a decent wrap you got on your package by the way," he said matter-of-factly before he strode off into the shadows. "But it's the first time I ever smelt perfume on a rotter. Getting rusty, old man."

When Eve came out Pappagallo was still standing there looking out into the dark. His expression was mostly his usual stolid mask, but he looked as discombobulated as she had ever seen him.

"Mister Pappagallo? What just happened? Did you just hire that man?" she asked, trying to get his attention. "You obviously knew him, who is he?"

"One of the good ones," he murmured. "Probably as good as we're gonna get."

"Then why are you so concerned? It is obvious that something is wrong."

Pappagallo turned to look at her now, eyes narrowed and intense. "There's only a few hard reasons why men kill for a living. That pilot Straight was a punisher, somebody did him wrong and he's out to give back what he was handed. Me, I'm ex-military, I do this job because it's all I know. But that one just now… he's in it for the worst kind of reason. He kills because he _likes_ it."

"And… and you associate with him anyway?" said Eve, her luminous eyes widening.

"I don't tolerate his kind," was his answer. "But there's a few rare ones who almost have a conscience, a sort of code of honour. Brinnlitz is that kind of psycho. He gets his fix by capping scum, people who deserve killing. People like his own kind. But he doesn't take women, kids, ordinary joes. That's why I can stand talking to him without my hand on my gun."

That, he silently added, and the fact that I owe him one.

"Look, I'll give it to you straight," he said to her then. "The man is trouble. But the job stands a better chance with him on board, because he's _serious _trouble for anybody in his way. It's your call."

The woman was silent for a time. Then she said without emotion: "Naraka Prime is threatened by at least fifty men who like to kill, Mister Pappagallo. From a simple mathematical standpoint, the answer is obvious."

Pappagallo nodded his assent. "Let's pack it up, we're done for the day. Brinnlitz is right, we're just getting scrubs and ground-pounders this way, not pilots. Tomorrow, we're going uptown."

Minutes later, as they were walking to the pod where Pappagallo's rover was hidden, he looked at Eve beside him and bent a bit to sniff near the hood of her smelly disguise.

"You didn't put on any damn perfume, did you? Of course not, you're too smart for that," he answered himself at her indignant stare. "So what the hell was he…"

Then, the old merc abruptly put up a hand to clasp his temple, exasperated with himself. "Moisturizer. You're an Arcturan on a desert world, you have to use a cream to stop your skin drying out."

"Well yes, but what relevance…"

"Forget it," he stopped her. Then, in a grumpy mutter to himself: "Who the fuck would get close enough to smell a fucking leper's… Ah hell, maybe I am getting rusty…"

x x x x x

_**North Cross City, Southeast Open District  
Haddock's Free World trading post, sideyard access**_

The pudgy owner of the tradeshack came out on the side yard to meet them as Pappagallo's rover touched down.

"Mister Pappagallo, one of the other guests is by your room. Says he knows you," Haddock informed the merc as the hatch opened, then a look of distaste came over his ample features as he caught a whiff from the rover's interior. "And you better have that rotter off my property before dark."

Frowning, Pappagallo watched as the trader moved off, then he leaned out of his rover to look down the row of storage huts to the one that served as his guest cabin. There was no one in sight, but when he eased the vehicle forward on hoverjets, he noticed that the cabin's door was half-open, the door he had made sure to lock on the way out.

"Stay put," he said to Owan in the back, and he got out, leaving the hatch slightly open so the Sanjivan could hear whatever transpired outside. Then, taking cover beside the hut's doorframe, he nudged the door fully open.

The man inside was sitting on the bed, and remained motionless as the old merc peeked in.

"Remember me?" he asked coolly.

Relaxing, Pappagallo holstered his gun and stepped in. "Sure," he replied. "Amon Pistor. The one who put the Tong out of business."

The man wore the tie and waistcoat of a professional, his clothes neat and orderly despite their dusty trailworn look, and the pistol at his side looked rather out of place. He was a small, almost comical-looking fellow, but there was a subtle presence about him that suggested he was not a man to be trifled with.

"Business is slow now," said Amon Pistor. "I've heard you're after men for some business of your own."

"Yep. You heard right."

"How much does the job pay?"

"I thought you were looking for the Yun Chong brothers," said Pappagallo, eyes narrowed in surprise.

"I found them," was Pistor's nonchalant reply. "How much does the job pay?"

"Depends what kind of ship you're flying. High-powered rigs get high prices."

"No ship. Not any more," said Pistor, his voice going deceptively soft. "Just me, my gun, and my toolkit. How much does the job pay?"

Pappagallo looked hard at him for a long moment, and Pistor gazed back unflinching.

"One grade-C cell," the old merc eventually said. "We leave at the end of the week. Take it or leave it."

Pistor nodded, seeming as though he'd been expecting this outcome all along. "I'll need it by tomorrow to pay for the week's rent."

"A fusion cell for one week's rent? You must be living in style," said Pappagallo, raising an eyebrow.

"That's right," answered Pistor, his voice again growing soft and casual. "I've got the most stylish corner of that filthy repair shack out back. That and one plate of steak and sauce a day. One functional power source for five days room and board, take it or leave it."

In spacer parlance, 'steak and sauce' was a brick of rehydrated nutri-synth paste, flavoured with an eye dropper.

"Guess anywhere looks good when you're on the run," said Pappagallo, a note of sympathy coming to his voice. This whole weird encounter made sense now. It seemed like he'd wrung a good deal out of it too, for both parties.

"Pick me up when you're ready to go. I'll be here," said the small man, and he left.

"I suppose this Amon Pistor is unequivocally one of the 'good ones' then?" said Eve Owan when Pappagallo went back to her, sounding somewhat put out that she hadn't been consulted before the hire.

"That's right," the merc answered flatly. "He's got a reputation, and deserves it far as I know. Steady hand with a gun and knows his way around a circuit board too. It's a pity he lost his wings, but we still got a skilled fighter out of nowhere, for a bargain too. And he doesn't come with the kind of baggage we'll get with Brinnlitz."

"It appears to me that he has baggage enough." Eve muttered, but she let it go. They had doubled their number with quality gunfighters in spite of everything, however flawed those men might be.

x x x x x

_**Planet Sanjiva, primary satellite of Omega Cygni a.k.a. "Naraka" in the Cygnus Star Region****  
Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," Holbein-Eta canyon 135 km. outside community border  
Civilian hovervehicle: Registry Rehberg-T-OCS43, approaching Matthiessen family homestead at high speed**_

"Stack… driving like this… we're gonna get killed!" said Clara Rehberg through gritted teeth, as her airskimmer raced through the pitch-black canyon. She was flying blind, relying on her map readout and a relatively wide and straight ravine to keep from disaster. Every second was wide-eyed torture, and the sight of occasional wall outcroppings appearing in the headlights and instantly flashing past on either side almost had her pissing her pants.

"Drive faster," growled her cousin Teresa, known to her and the rest of the mining crew as 'Stack'. She was just as tense, hands white-knuckled as she clutched her rifle, but for her, smoldering rage was drowning out the fear. She couldn't stand by, couldn't take this shit any longer.

It had happened at dinner time. Stack and Clara had been at home, chatting with Hattie Matthiessen over the cable-comm, listening to the subdued conversation of the many daughters Matthiessen at their dinner table a hundred kilometers away. Hattie was talking about how she had her clan sleeping in shifts so somebody was on watch at all times. Then the screaming had started.

"Still half an hour… best speed… too late to do anything!" said Clara, trembling with effort and barely able to speak.

"Bullshit," Stack snapped at her. "There could be injured survivors, trapped kids, whatever! We're not fucking waiting till morning, got it? Now drive faster!"

The canyon raced by in the light of the headlamps, the vegetation of the ravine's floor just a blur of blue and green beneath the skimmer, the walls a blur of pale grey on either side, and the night air a curtain of sheer blackness in front and overhead. At periodic intervals a guide marker would pass by in a streak of light, the only light besides their own in Sanjiva's starless night. The green lines of the mini-map and simulated topographical view were projected on the plexiglass windscreen, and Clara was afraid to take her eyes off the screen even to blink.

The seconds ticked by till the skimmer was just a few kilometers away from the Matthiessen homestead, and that was when a heart-stopping flicker went through the electronic displays. The headlamps died away, swallowing up everything in Clara's view with pitch darkness, and the hum of the engine stuttered. She slammed on the brakes, clutching desperately at the stick to try to keep the vehicle on a straight path.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck! What the fuck is this!" she cried out. The electrical disturbance lasted only an instant, but it was enough to make her actually pee herself a little, leaving a humiliating patch of warm wetness in her jumpsuit.

"Some kind of goddamn EMP," she said in shock. "Must be a storm coming!"

"Bull-fucking-shit! There ain't no storm alert on the wire! And there ain't no fucking storm that can fuck with a hover engine anyway, it's shielded!" Stack snarled. "It's gotta be the pirates, some new weapon they have!"

"Stack, I gotta slow down now. This glitching crap will kill us for sure if I keep speeding. Oh shit, there it is again!"

"Doesn't matter. We're just a few minutes away."

After another minute or two of flickering displays and a coughing engine, Clara needlessly muttered: "It's getting worse. The source must be close to the house."

"There's the ramp!" Stack exclaimed. "We're close enough, shut 'er down. Fuck, we'll have to bring our own lights."

The two grabbed the necessary gear from the back: fire extinguishers, first aid kits, wire headsets, hand lamps. (The insulated mining lamps worked, albeit with an occasional flicker.) They both took a survey charge for a makeshift grenade, Clara pulled her pistol, and Stack clicked her rifle safety off. Then they jumped out of the skimmer, jogging along the valley side toward the ramp leading to the nearby homestead.

Their hand lamps continued to flicker, but Clara began to realize there was something else going on. There were slight black spots swimming in her vision, the colour of the vegetation and the variegated rock seemed to be fading, there was a faint, weird droning sound on the edge of her hearing that she wasn't sure was real or imagined. It all seemed sort of surreal, growing worse as they got closer to the ramp. She was getting really scared now.

"No light, no sound, no fire or smoke," Clara said softly. "There aught to be shooting and yelling, and lights from their skiffs. The pirates don't do no blackout spook raids, Stack."

"Just means the raid is over. Come on, move your ass."

"Stack, when Hattie got attacked, did you hear any gunshots or flyer engine sounds on the comm? I'm getting seriously creeped out here."

"The raid is over, pussy!" Stack almost yelled at her. "Fuck, just go around the ramp and check the lab and garage, I'll do the house myself!"

"Wait, we shouldn't split up!" Clara yelped, but her bullheaded cousin was already rushing up the ramp. She hesitated a moment, trying to decide if she should go after her. Then she settled on doing as she was told, and started heading around the ramp.

Like many working homesteads, the Matthiessen property was basically a half-globe shaped alcove carved out of the valley side and a short distance upward from the floor, with the house on the flat floor of the half-globe and a garage dug out underneath. The Matthiessens were geologists and seismologists who preferred to do their work inside the ground they studied, so their working space was built into the rock wall close by the garage.

Clara headed straight for the geo-labs, intending to pass the garage with just a quick glance, but she froze when the garage actually came into the view of her lamp. The Matthiessens' six-wheeler was nowhere in sight, and the garage was now a gaping hole in the rock with no sign of its door or tool-festooned metal walls.

That was where Stack found her some fifteen minutes later, just standing there staring at the hole where the garage had been.

"What the fuck?" said Stack, shaking her head violently to clear the confounded black spots from her vision. "Did you check the labs? Are they like this too? Clara, look at me!"

Stack grabbed her cousin's shoulders and spun her round to face her. Clara's eyes were glazed, and her face was slack.

"It… it swallowed. The mouth… it swallowed. I saw…" she said feebly. Stack was about to slap her silly, but she passed a glance at the opening and froze herself.

The rock had changed. It was a sickly white colour inside the opening, mingled with glistening blacks and greens. The uneven walls were sort of crawling with patterns, tangled extrusions that looked like bones, or intestines, or teeth, occasionally interspersed with what looked like rusty metal bars and rivets cruelly gouged into the organic shapes. It looked ancient and petrified, giving off a strange dank smell and a foggy vapour deeper in, and the opening seemed to be narrower further inside, as though it would eventually shrink to a crawlspace down the line.

The cave was a sickening and deeply disturbing thing to see, the most alien thing the cousins had ever experienced. It was like the mouth of some fossilized subterranean behemoth, or the door to a land of nightmares.

"Stack?" said Clara, as though she was uncertain her cousin was there.

"The… the house is empty," said Stack slowly, almost to herself. "Torn up pretty good, but no blood, no bodies. There were these… leather egg things, in nests of… of dead vines. I dunno if Hattie was just letting them grow there or…"

She trailed off into silence.

"Were the eggs broken?" asked Clara after a moment.

"No, but… there was one in the foyer, it was solid when I came in. When I passed it on the way out… the top had split open. I never saw nothing else. What about the lab?"

"I don't know. I just saw… I saw…" Clara went quiet, unable to describe what she had seen.

Then: "Stack?"

"Yeah."

"Let's get the hell out of here?"

"Fuck yeah."

x x x x x

_Author's notes:_

_Again, another freakin' long delay between chapters, with apologies. My life is an emotional roller coaster ride right now, with unhappy crap happening at both academic and personal levels, so I sadly can't promise another update with any kind of swiftness._

_ Anyway, lemme just reassure everyone that this is in fact an Aliens story, even if we haven't seen any aliens so far. The movie Seven Samurai took a full hour before we ever saw a bandit; I hope I don't go that extreme but I am staying faithful to the premise._

_- SA_


	6. The Sky Riders

CHAPTER 6: THE SKY RIDERS

_**Planet Cygnus Alpha, first satellite of Alpha Cygni a.k.a. "Deneb Minor" in the Cygnus Star Region  
****North Cross City, Topside District  
****Main Aerodrome, open promenade between Docking Terminals 2 and 3**_

The market promenade was an open boardwalk meandering around and between the spaceport complexes, sheltered from the blinding sunlight by a canopy of awnings once bright and gaudy but now faded to a uniform brownish-grey. Years ago, it had been a bustling river of traders and travelers, with black market weapons and drugs sold willy-nilly beside exotic food and clothing. Nowadays it was quiet and empty, most of the stalls abandoned, and the few ragged lepers about were conspicuous from the lack of any others.

There was an open-air cantina in the promenade, situated at a fortuitous spot between two of the docking complexes. Pilots, off-worlders and dockworkers crossed paths from both terminals here, making the nameless establishment something of an unofficial spacer's lounge.

Eve Owan in her leper's guise was seated at one of the cantina's tables, watching her mercenary contractor Piers Pappagallo a distance away. The old merc was talking to a grizzled character in plain fatigues with a military pulse rifle slung under his arm. After a time, the man turned and moved on, and Pappagallo returned.

"No luck?" asked Owan as the merc sat opposite her, and he shook his head.

"He would have been ideal," Pappagallo grumbled. "Bastard had an old Conestoga frigate all to himself, would have given us space superiority as soon as he entered the system. Didn't want the fuel either."

"What did he want then?"

"Particular raider group I suppose," he shrugged. "Seemed like he was looking for any outpost in distress, but when I told him it was confirmed space pirates he lost interest. There was something else, do you know anything about a woman and a girl touching down on your world?"

"No, we have had no visitors since the occupation."

"Didn't think so. Doesn't matter, he ain't the only star in the sky."

"I hope so," Owan murmured. "We have had no success so far."

"Maybe," said Pappagallo. He was watching someone at a nearby gun merchant's stall, a man with a widebrim hat.

This person was in a staring contest with the stall's owner, who looked supremely unimpressed. After a moment the man in the widebrim exchanged a handful of datacards for a pair of ammo cartridges, and he turned away with the air of someone just robbed blind. As he started heading down the promenade through the cantina area, Pappagallo motioned to the tender.

"The cowpoke over there, with the big hat," he said, pointing to the individual. "I'm buying him a drink."

The burly tender cast a dark look at Owan in her rags, but he took Pappagallo's coin and set off without comment.

"Think that one's worth hiring?" Pappagallo asked of Owan, who gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up before he finished the question. Moments later, the tender returned with the man in question.

"G'day Pops," said Tristan O'Hara, breaking into a sunny grin as he saw the old merc.

"Harry," Pappagallo acknowledged, and he allowed a slight smile as he touched his cap brim in greeting. "I'd like to buy you a drink."

"Luna," O'Hara said to the tender, specifying an old brand of whisky, and he pulled up a chair as Pappagallo waved him over.

"Got anything lined up in North Cross?" asked Pappagallo.

"Eli's taking me on as a tanker pilot, running the barge between here and Sandstone," O'Hara answered. "Maybe if I 'barge' through enough shipping, I might have a shot at outer space."

"Sure, if cargo hauling is your thing," the old merc commented, to which O'Hara gave a wry chuckle.

"Well, I did hear of a job stomping 'rats at some border colony, but I can't find out what it pays."

"One C-grade fuel cell," stated Pappagallo. "One more for a heavy fighting ship."

"What, per week? Per mission?"

"For the whole job, two more on completion."

"That's it? That's ridiculous," said O'Hara in disbelief, and he took a big gulp of his drink. "You know anything else about this job?"

"Sure," said Pappagallo. "It's on the edge of the cluster, stomping 'rats at a little frontier colony. Her colony."

The old merc looked to Owan as he concluded, and O'Hara followed his gaze and took heed of the nearby 'leper' for the first time. Owan looked up at that, tugged at the bandages around her face to fully reveal her eyes, and O'Hara started as he realized who she was.

"Well hey, hello again," he said carefully, taking a quick look around to make sure no one was near. "That's a very effective fashion statement, I didn't recognize you at all. It's good to see you ma'am, but I don't think I can help. One C-grade won't even buy a full ordnance load for my ship."

"I understand," said Eve, gazing at him without reproach. "A cargo contract would be far more profitable, and it would be safe, steady work."

Pappagallo watched as a O'Hara twisted his mouth slightly in a sour grimace, and the old merc gave Owan a little nod of approval. _She learns fast_, he thought. _Safe and steady is the last thing this man wants_.

"One C-grade cell," said O'Hara, his gaze turning back and forth between the old merc and the Sanjivan.

"We're looking for men now," said Pappagallo, and Owan nodded.

O'Hara took off his hat a moment, scratched his dirty-blond head. His gaze fell on Pappagallo as he looked up.

"How many you got?" he asked.

Pappagallo wordlessly held up a hand, the first three fingers extended.

In response O'Hara held up his own hand, with four fingers out. He was in.

x x x x x

The next morning, O'Hara met up with Pappagallo and Owan at the promenade cantina, and he listened as Pappagallo laid it all out.

"Seems to me we're a ship short," he said, when Owan asked him his thoughts.

"Yep," Pappagallo agreed. "That's what I'm holding out for."

"Why so?" asked Owan.

"It's the 'rat frigate," O'Hara explained. "Kenamor patrol boats mount a pair of coilguns for point defense, one on each side. One of those guns can hold off two small ships pretty easy, and that's all we have so far. We'd have a fighting chance if we had one more ship."

"We'll have that pilot soon enough," said Pappagallo, looking to Owan. "I'm going into dangerous territory to find 'em though, and I can't take you with me. That's why I wanted to meet Harry today."

"Don't want to leave her alone, is that it?" O'Hara asked with a smile, and Pappagallo nodded.

"You're an outworld spacer, a cut above the local scum 'round here. I need someone I can trust to take care of her."

"I can take care of myself!" Owan protested in indignation.

"No, you can't," Pappagallo answered coldly. "Even if you could handle a gun, you'd be easy pickings for two or three men together. You're the boss, but I give the orders when it comes to your safety, understood?"

"I can handle a gun just fine, Mister Pops," she retorted.

"No, you can't. You're packing a tranq shooter, and that's not going to cut it."

"But it'll sure make my job easier," O'Hara cut in quickly. "If you watch my back while I watch yours, we got all ways covered, right?"

Harry chuckled inwardly as the fire in Eve's eyes cooled, albeit only partially. _Feisty, this one._

Pappagallo stood up, motioned them to leave.

"I'll fly you back to Haddock's," he said. "The sooner I get started on this, the sooner we can leave for Naraka."

They set off, Owan using the shuffling limp she had adopted for her guise and the two mercs never straying far from her. Pappagallo had hidden his air rover in one of the many abandoned small hangars lining Terminal 2's runways, not too far from the promenade. Of the shop owners, dock workers, lepers and thugs they passed along the way, most kept their distance from the armed mercenaries and did not interrupt their passage. Most all of them, in fact, save one.

As they were heading into the concourse of Terminal 2, a leper turned its head to watch them approach. It gazed intently at the smaller leper Owan as she drew near, then it suddenly made a synthesized-sounding buzz and lurched to its feet, moving to block her path.

Owan froze and trembled in her tracks: the leper was over seven feet tall and clad head to toe in rusted, mismatched, metal-plated armour. Long claws protruded from the fingertips of heavy gloves, discoloured rags covered the seams and the joints, and a hooded cowl covered the top half of an ominous full-visor helmet.

"Easy now," said Pops quickly, moving up to the giant figure and half-turning to look back at Owan. "The big fella ain't a local, he's a spacer like us. He got unlucky and caught the rot here, that's all. We call him Jack."

"That's it! You don't know Jack!" barked a female voice from the helmet, sounding scratchy and tinny as though from a weak radio comm. Eve blinked.

"That is from an old holovideo," she said. "Tina Versailles said that in West of Eden."

"You got it kid, hole in one!" said the giant in another scratchy voice, this time a raspy male voice.

"Jo van Massey, Tugboat," said Owan in a daze, and Harry let out a surprised laugh.

"You're a holo buff, eh? Jack lost his voice to the disease, so he uses recorded speech and corny movie quotes to talk. Don't ask me how he does it without a keypad."

"He's a decent spacer, not dangerous. He's acting up though," said Pops. He stepped forward, knocked on the giant's chest plate like a door. "All friends here, Jack. What's the deal big guy, you gonna let us pass?"

"Sonar to com, contact in the water," said the massive figure. It had never turned its visor away from Eve Owan. Then, there was a flash of red light from its visor, a stream of laser light going straight to a spot on Owan's right hip.

"Jack?" said the old merc, drawing out the word in a note of warning. Both mercs had hands on their guns now but hadn't drawn. Pops had thought for a moment that Jack was shining his light on Eve's groin, in which case his gun would have been pointed at the giant spacer's head. But something else was going on here.

"No, it is okay," said Owan. She stuck her hand under the rags at her side, fished something out of her pocket that looked like a smooth greenish-white shard of bone. "Is this what you want?"

The laser light shone down on the fragment as she held it up, and the light narrowed and focused. One great clawed gauntlet came out and delicately lifted the shard from Owan's palm, and the giant made a melodious artificial hum as it inspected the object.

"It is just a rock from my planet," Owan explained to the mercs. "There are a lot of rocks under the surface that have odd chemical properties, I was carrying one as a souvenir. You can have it if you like, Mister Jack."

"Thanks a million," the giant responded, and slid the shard into a belt pouch. Then, from the same pouch, it took out a small grey oval about the size of a cigarette lighter. It pointed the narrow end at Owan and pressed the side: another red laser light shone out upon the vicinity of her neck, and simultaneously, a three-dimensional image of the woman sprang up from the top of the disc. Owan gasped in surprise, and the giant promptly turned off the beam and held out the disc to her.

"It is some kind of holocamera," said Eve to the mercs, her eyes wide. "How did he do that? You need three cameras surrounding the subject for that kind of image! Oh no Mister Jack, it is too much for a rock!"

She raised her hands in refusal, but the giant simply seized one of her hands between its thumb and forefinger, turned her hand palm-up, placed the disc on her palm, and pushed her fingers over it to close her fist. It apparently was not going to take 'no' for an answer. Then, turning its visor back and forth between Owan and Pappagallo, it said in a child's voice: "I wanna come along, Marvin. Take me with you!"

Pappagallo shared a surprised glance with O'Hara, then looked up to the armoured figure. "Jack, we appreciate the offer, but you're a sick man. And you don't have a space ship, which is what we need right now. I know you have lots of cool gadgets, but it's dangerous where we're going buddy."

"That's it! You don't know Jack!" the giant protested, but after a moment, it slowly shuffled aside to let them pass. Owan watched the figure curiously as the trio moved on.

"What was that about?" she asked. "Is Jack a prospector? Or a scientist?"

"He's an inventor for sure," said O'Hara, and Pappagallo nodded.

"I hear he did a couple of scouting contracts for the Freespace Guild," said the old merc. "Uses his devices to find things and get to places most can't. I've no idea why he'd be interested in your rocks though."

"Who knows why he does anything?" commented Harry. "The rot's likely gone into his brain by now, made the poor bastard half-crazy. It's a damn shame, that's a lot of talent going out the hatch."

"Yes, a shame," said Eve. She looked down at the holocamera device in her hand, then she turned a moment to look back over her shoulder at the giant, who had slumped down in an archway. _What a strange person,_ she thought.

Behind them, the huge figure they called Jack watched on as they left the promenade. It drew out the curious bone-like rock and held it up to its laser scanning beam. And as it began closely analyzing the shard, it let out a slow, sibilant hiss.

x x x x x

_**North Cross City, Topside District  
****Sweet Sally's Saloon, side entrance**_

The man in unassuming, nondescript clothes stepped out of the saloon's side door onto the dusty deserted street, but perhaps at the sight of the two large men outside, his foot buckled. He lurched and tripped, flopping down to his hands and knees between the men on either side of the door. One of the big men sniggered.

"This supposed to be the great Kano? said Neil Wessler contemptuously. "He don't look so great soused."

"Watch it, he's got tricks!" snapped the gang boss Gregor Lubov.

Both men had their hands on their sidearms already, and they swiftly drew their weapons as the fallen one stumbled to his feet and faced Lubov. He now had a sleek and solid-looking pistol in his hand. He tried to say something as he waved the gun at Lubov's face, but it came out so slurred and jumbled as to be undecipherable.

"I said, you can bake your business elsewhere," Nikola Kano managed to say on the second try. "I already told to your boss I'm not interred-intern-inter… don't wanna."

"Eli just wants to talk, Mister Kano," said Lubov, sounding relaxed and unconcerned. "He just might have an offer you can't refuse."

"I got one of those for you," slurred Kano. "Pish off, and I won't blow yer arse to hell."

"Look at you," Lubov tsk-tsked. "You're not shooting anybody, you're so drunk you can barely stand. You have to see straight to shoot, and I bet you're seeing double right now."

"Thass okay," said Kano, drawing an identical off-hand pistol from an underarm holster. "I got a gun for the both of you."

Lubov paused, narrowed his small eyes.

"You're starting to piss me off, asshole," he said, his voice full of menace. "Let's say by some miracle you manage to put both me and Wessler down. Well I got some boys out on the street with scopes on you, and they'll fill you with holes just the same. You're coming with us either way, so stop wasting my fucking time."

Kano swayed, and he turned his head and warily looked up and down the street, provoking a laugh from the second thug.

"That's right," chuckled Wessler, "look real hard, bitch."

Kano slowly stooped and put his pistols on the ground, then stood up and raised his hands. Lubov and Wessler relaxed and lowered their own weapons.

"Get his guns," Lubov said to his subordinate, then addressed Kano: "I knew you were a reasonable man. Now let's get you cleaned up and…"

Suddenly Kano let out a long, loud belch that ended with a gurgle, and a dismayed look came over his face.

"I-I don't feel so good," he mumbled, and abruptly doubled over, clutching his gut.

"Aww Christ," said Wessler, flinching away from him. "He's gonna puke. Boss, there's no way I'm…"

From Piers Pappagallo's position, watching a distance away from behind a dilapidated transport, it seemed as though Kano started to topple face-first to the ground. Pappagallo wasn't too sure what happened next, as he saw it from the corner of his eye while taking aim on a sniper atop a nearby building. But from where he was, it seemed as though Kano tumbled head-over-heels, arms whipping in a blur as he jack-knifed in the air to land in a crouch. A sound resembling a burst of machinegun fire ripped out as Kano came to a halt.

Before the old merc's eyes, the man he was aiming at slumped down, a small dark hole in his forehead. Another man further away was falling over a second-floor railing to land on his back in the street. Wessler and Lubov had also collapsed, and everyone but the gang boss was shot cleanly in the head.

Kano rose smoothly to his feet, his smoking pistols in both hands. If he took any pride in his astounding feat of gunplay, he showed little of it. Lubov was groaning hoarsely, nursing a bloody gun-hand and knee, but he stilled when Kano met his eye.

"The name is Kano," he said, pronouncing it properly as 'can-o' and not 'cane-o' as the two toughs had done. His speech was precise and impassive now, and there was no trace of drunken slurring. "And I am uninterested in any offer Mister Eli might have. Tell him."

Pappagallo made one last check for hidden foes, then he rose and holstered his pistol. He held no illusions that he hadn't been seen, and walked out from behind his cover.

"Kano," he said to the man in greeting, as he strode over.

"Pops," Kano replied without facing him. "I assume you have an offer that I may, in fact, be interested in."

x x x x x

_**North Cross City, Southeast Open District  
****Haddock's Free World trading post, main rotunda**_

At Haddock's tradeshack, there was a combination tavern and restaurant housed in the central building. It was old and ratty to be sure, but it also held an odd, rough charm with its muted lights and exposed girders and metalwork amidst the worn chairs and tables.

It was the last day of the week Pappagallo had designated for the muster, and the four mercs and their Sanjivan patron had gathered together for a meeting before tomorrow's departure into space.

It was an interesting gathering of rather diverse people. Piers Pappagallo, Tristan O'Hara, and Eve Owan sat together at a center table, the Arcturan woman now back in her cloaked guise as a Muslim woman. Hans Brinnlitz sat at the bar, but had swiveled around on the barstool to chat personably with the three. And Amon Pistor watched from the shadow of a girder at the corner of the room, a place where he could watch all the entrances.

"Found a man who would have been perfect," Pappagallo was saying. "Gun, hand-to-hand, in the cockpit, you name it, I doubt there's any better on this rock. But he wasn't interested."

"That's not too surprising," said Harry. "C-grades ain't worth a whole lot. You're not likely to get an operator like that for just a couple cells."

"Didn't give a shit about the fuel. He's not in it for profit," said Pops, which got some startled looks, including from the bartender.

"You found a man in this profession with no wish for profit?" asked Eve, eyes wide. Harry seemed mildly surprised to hear it, but Brinnlitz seemed inured to this revelation and just smiled to himself in some private joke, while Pistor showed little emotional response to anything.

"Like I said, men do this kind of work for different reasons," answered Pappagallo. "Some care about nothing but profit. Others, they're in it for the danger, for the thrill of it."

"And the competition," added the smiling Brinnlitz, and he swirled his drink in his glass and took a sip.

"But you said he was the best fighter on this planet," said Eve. There seemed to be a flaw to the old merc's logic, and she was curious about his rationale. "If he's the best on-planet or off, with whom would he compete?"

"With himself," said Amon Pistor softly.

"Yep," said Pops.

Pappagallo paused a moment as a thought came to him. When he first picked up O'Hara, the younger merc had mentioned he knew a speedy route through the canyons of Broken Hills. Now there was flying that only the best could pull off.

"Harry, how did you learn to jet through Broken Hills?" he asked the man. "That's a pretty local skill for a spacer to have."

"Just something I picked up a couple years ago. Making fuel supply runs during that ugly little skirmish with the Big Three."

"You were in the Big Three war?" Suddenly, Pappagallo put two and two together. "_You_ were the tri-wing flyer! The juicerunner keeping Weez alive from the south!"

"That was me, for all the good it was worth," the other confirmed. "How would you know that?"

"Because I tried to catch you. I had command of Eli's rear guard, and I set up a dragnet to try to catch you near the end of it all. I had tower lookouts smoke whichever canyon they saw you in and then everybody would booster-drop down with the fastest airspeeders we had. You did some mighty fine flying, I have to say."

"If you only knew how close you came!" Harry exclaimed. "So _you_ were the one set up that smoke-and-choke trap! Cripes, I was sweating bullets over that one! I knew there was no way Eli's gorillas could have thought up something like that. Funny circumstances for us to meet again, eh General?"

"Funny," Pappagallo agreed, noting that O'Hara seemed to hold no grudge from nearly dying at his hands. Their boss was a little less approving.

"How can you fight against someone in a war and then work with him?" Owan asked, her voice low and tense. "Are there going to be problems between you two?"

"Not at all," smiled O'Hara.

"It's just the job. We've got no grudges to grind," Pappagallo added.

That was a merc's life, Pops mused to himself. Somebody who fought beside you in one job could be fighting against you in another. It was just the work, nothing personal, and getting personal never worked. The way of the gun was a lonely road, he supposed.

Suddenly, the door flew open and a young man strode into the room, a certain handsome young man with a pistol and a long katana. It seemed like he was intent on making the same kind of flashy entrance as before, but this time he stumbled on the way in, swaying on his feet as he awkwardly regained his footing. He had a wild look in his eye, and his shiny black hair was now untied and flowing all about his shoulders. All eyes fell upon him.

"Mister Pappagallo," he said, breaking into a broad smile that didn't express any warmth at all. "I have been a-looking for you. You're tricky to find, but I found you now didn't I." His speech was uneven, slightly garbled. He appeared quite drunk.

"Well dearie-dear, what have we here," said Brinnlitz, his own smile gaining an unsettling feral, eager quality.

Brinnlitz rose and sidestepped in a smooth motion as the lad stumbled forward again and grabbed at the bar to steady himself. The dark-clad merc now had a pair of small wickedly-curved knives, held blade-down behind his back. However, Pappagallo swiftly raised a hand in a peacemaking gesture, and Brinnlitz made an exaggerated sulky-face as he sheathed the knives and watched on.

"Clap your hands. That's what he said. Clap your hands," said the young man, his voice now trembling with anger. He abruptly turned to the nearby Brinnlitz and clapped right in front of the sniper's face, which only provoked a raised eyebrow.

"Go on, clap your hands! Now!" the stranger shouted. "That's how good you are, don't you know? It's how fast you can clap your fucking hands!"

"I heard about you, ya know," said the lad, now coming back to face Pops at the center table. "Old man Pappagallo, the sensei of Deneb, been everywhere, seen everything. This is my chance to prove something, make a name for myself, and it turns out he's chasing Naraka too. It's like destiny a-calling, you know? And then he makes me look like a fucking imbecile with a goddamn kid's game!"

He suddenly snatched up a barstool and threw it across the room, passing perilously near Pappagallo's head to crash noisily into a corner table. Pops just stared straight ahead and took a slow sip of his drink. Harry, Brinnlitz and Pistor watched on impassively, and somewhat to her own surprise, so did Eve.

The bartender was another matter. When the young man grasped at another stool, the balding barkeep snapped "Alright that's enough kid!" and reached over the bar to grab the lad's shoulder.

"Get the _hell _away from me!" snarled the stranger, wrenching away from the barkeep. The lad reached back to his shoulder scabbard and whipped out his big katana in a flash of steel, slicing through the air so close to the bartender's fingers that he must have been a centimeter away from trimming the man's nails.

The barkeep snatched his hand back like he'd just poked a spineworm, while Pappagallo noted to himself that if the young man actually meant to do that move and could pull it off even when drunk, then he had decidedly underestimated the fellow's capabilities. Amon Pistor pulled his gun and started to step forward, but this time it was Harry who raised a hand and waved him back. Brandishing his blade, the lad faced Pappagallo again and went into a fighting stance.

"Want to clap hands now? Fuck that, we're doing this _for real!_" he yelled at Pops. "Come on! See if you can draw before I slice off your head! Let's go!"

"I said, _let's go!_ You afraid of my blade, is that it?" the lad roared when Pappagallo made no move, and he abruptly threw the katana to the floor. He took up a gunslinger's stance with hand over pistol instead, shifting unsteadily into the new position, and exclaimed "Fine, gun to gun! Fair and square, I'll take you down either way!"

"_Get up!_ Get up and face me!" cried out the young man, growing even more riled when Pappagallo remained still. "Oh, you don't think I'm serious, do you?"

Drawing his pistol, the stranger fired two rounds over the old merc's head, one of which ricocheted and shattered a glass at the far end of the bar. "Come on! _Face me!_" he screamed.

Pappagallo didn't bat an eyelash, and the barkeep remained motionless. The lad whipped around to look one way and the next, only to see Brinnlitz nonchalantly pouring himself a refill and Harry leaning back to sip his own drink. Pistor had resumed his watch on the doors, and even Eve had managed to turn away and appear unconcerned.

"Come on, face me?" the young man said to Pops, but all the fire was gone and only a childish pleading was left in his voice.

When no one moved, he slowly turned away, his face crinkled up like he was holding back tears. He bent and moved forward as if searching for something, but the maneuver was too much for him and he pitched forward, saving himself from a fall only by seizing the edge of the bar.

"Hey there, friend," said the lad to the bartender, now sounding quite polite and civilized. Still clutching his pistol, he had only his gun-arm draped over the bar to keep his numbed body off the floor. "Do you see my sword anywhere? I seem to have dropped it."

And then he collapsed amidst a clatter of toppled barstools, leaving his pistol on the bar. This time Pappagallo leaped to his feet, and everyone else followed. Pops moved to where the lad had fallen and checked him for injury, then he took up the nearby fallen katana and looked up.

"He's all right, just passed out," said Pappagallo to all present, and he gathered up the young man's pistol and offered both weapons to the bartender. "Sorry about all this Marc, I'll pay for the damage. Let him sleep it off, then give him his iron and a coffee, alright?"

"Gotta feel sorry for him," commented Harry, looking down at the stranger. "Your approval meant a lot to him, eh?"

"If it's worth anything, he's got it now," said Pops. "Tracked us down in a couple of days, and pulled off a nice fast cut while he was dead drunk. He could make a fine fighter someday, if he lives long enough. Alright, let's pack it in…"

Pappagallo stopped abruptly. Another man was standing at the door, a plain-faced man in unassuming, nondescript clothes. All eyes turned to the newcomer as the room became aware of him.

"I have had a change of heart, Mister Pappagallo," said Nikola Kano. "There may be something of interest to me in Omega Cygni after all."

Pappagallo gazed at him and nodded slowly, then made a wave of his arm to welcome the skilled spacer into the room. Pops turned to give Eve a questioning look, and she vigorously nodded her head before he could ask. His eye fell upon a grinning Harry; the younger merc raised a hand with all digits extended.

Now they were five.

x x x x x

_**Silt Sea wasteland, natural rock cave 60 km. northeast of North Cross City  
****Unspecified spacecraft, 11m. below ground level**_

Within the dark confines of her vessel's sensing crèche, the scientist known to some as "Jack" watched as an analysis summary appeared once again, displaying the same results as before. She leaned back and let out a slow purring hiss, full of fearful but hungry anticipation. Now _this_ was unexpected.

She had come to this planet for entirely different reasons, but this artifact pointed the way towards discoveries of a magnitude even her miserable tribal people would notice. The scientist bared her fangs at the thought of the primitive fools, her purr turning sharp. This was the kind of find that made her exile worth every sting of ridicule they could throw.

The shard pulsed with the presence of the Forerunners, its unique subatomic radiance unmistakable even should she doubt the aura of dread she felt. This may have been simple rock once, but its most basic physical nature had been subtly twisted into a refined material of some unknowable function. Here was sign of the dark lords who had ruled the cosmos aeons ago, whose leavings were her people's weapons, tools, and ships.

The scientist's people had made taboo all remnants of the Forerunners, save for the devices they had adopted long since. They had destroyed every object and outpost of the ancients they could find, obliterating priceless reservoirs of knowledge in their quest to remove all that they feared. But this time, they could not interfere: this region of space was a remote place with few prey, and there was little reason to pursue their all-consuming sport here.

It was like something from a dream. The scientist had found an artifact of the ancients from a world that was close by, with none of her people in sight. And from the intensity of the artifact's aura, she believed that it had been created _recently_. Was this from a _functional_ Forerunner outpost?

The scientist grasped the hand grooves and pulled herself up into the bridge of her ship, the dark ellipse of metal and glass from which the three cradles of function were accessed. The sensing crèche was on the port side; she swung her massive body over the centre spine and eased herself into the starboard opening, the mind crèche. She needed to meditate on her course, to be certain of her path before she took action.

It was the nature of her people's weapons, tools, and ships that had made the scientist embark on her ignominious quest in the first place. Science, the fruit from which all these things came forth, was withering and dying on the vine. Her culture glorified war and the hunt above all else, and those who pursued science and education were accorded a caste of barely the same significance and privilege as those who prepared food.

So consumed were her people in their blood sport that they did not notice that new weapons were identical to old, generation after generation. But the scientist noticed. She had been a hunter of mediocre ability before, whose advantage of superior intelligence was hindered by her distaste for the mindlessness of it all. And she had noticed that a favourite prey, the small short-lived ones who named their home planet after dirt, had new weapons that were always far better than old.

Somehow, her people remained oblivious that the dirtlings were multiplying like a virus, prospering and spreading across the galaxy, performing such wonders as making lush new planets out of barren rocks, and generally growing better, smarter and stronger with every generation. In a scant few centuries, they had developed ships that were almost faster than her people's, weapons that were almost as deadly as her people's, tools that were in some ways even more versatile than her people's, and they showed no sign of stopping. Soon, the dirtlings' seeing devices would be strong enough to perceive her people's cloaked ships and stalking hunters, and then, why, then her people would become the hunted.

Thus, the mediocre hunter reduced her caste to lowly scientist, and tried to advance her people's weapons and technology by design. She made some advances indeed, but she remained an object of scorn even as her improved weapons were eagerly snatched up by the war castes. It wasn't enough for her, not by far.

She needed to closely understand the dirtlings and their meteoric advancement, needed to find reassurance that hers was the superior species. So, she turned to observing the dirtlings directly, and eventually exiled herself to live amongst them in disguise – the supreme mark of shame and dishonour, which she accepted to save her people from themselves.

It had taken considerable observation and work to develop the persona of "Jack," a figure that was accepted as a fellow dirtling despite the obvious physical differences. She had learned a great deal about dirtling language, culture and science, and was growing comfortable in her role as a crippled hunter-for-hire in a fringe society. But this new discovery threatened to make all her previous work irrelevant.

The potential for advancement from a vast ancient technology far outweighed that from newcomer technology, but if she left to study a Forerunner planet, it was unlikely that she would return in less than a dirtling's lifetime. Furthermore, wherever there were ancients, there would be their spawn: the Unleashed. Was this new course of action worth risking her life and abandoning her decades of previous work?

The scientist's thoughts turned to the artifact she had acquired from the waterling female; she could still feel its malevolence meters away. Why did her race instinctually fear the ancients so? Was the fear only in her mind, a simple physiological reaction to an unusual radiation? Or was it a deliberate emanation from the works of the ancients? Perhaps… perhaps a warning of the Unleashed?

An old, primal thrill started to wake in the scientist as she considered. Her people considered the Unleashed the most dangerous prey. And decry it though she might, the scientist was born a hunter, it was in her blood. She was a scientist, but her inner self was a hunter still. She did not consider the Unleashed the ultimate prey; she had seen for herself, ignorance was the most dangerous of all prey. But if she followed the path of the artifact… she would be hunting _both_.

There was a chime as a symbol appeared in the corner of her visor, a notification from her ship's eyes. She had given the waterling female a toy with a tracing device within, and it was on the move. It was time to make a decision, and she realized it had been made long before now, perhaps at the instant the artifact had touched her hand.

She grasped the grooves, pulled herself up into the bridge and then into the forward cradle, the sky crèche. Her ship purred as it felt her hands on the controls, its engines warming as power coursed through its metal veins. Her twin selves were no longer at odds here. It was time to hunt again.

x x x x x

_**Outskirts of North Cross City  
****Private landing field, vicinity of parking hangar A1**_

The rover was parked in his ship's starboard loading bay, supplies and possessions had been loaded and secured, the ship was prepped and ready to go. Yet something made Pappagallo hesitate, and he wasn't prone to that.

He got out of his gunship and came out of the hangar, took a look around. The day promised to be a real scorcher, with the dust hot and thick in the air and making a red haze over everything. Corroded wheeler bots lazily swept up and down the runway, pushing back the ever-creeping sand. The Silt Sea stretched out to the horizon, and the domes of North Cross City were the only outstanding scenery in the ocean of red.

This was the place Pops had lived in for half a decade, and now he was leaving. He tried to think of memorable things, of good memories here, and found precious little to recall. It wasn't like him to be sentimental, but it seemed as though he should feel _something_.

"Not much to look at, is it? But it's all we had for a long time," said Brinnlitz from behind his back, displaying the eerie empathy he was capable of. The other two passengers had come out as well, and Pappagallo sensed them approaching behind.

"Don't you get nostalgic," Pistor snapped at them both. "This is the arse-end of space and you know it. The sooner we're out of here, the better."

"I hear that," Pappagallo agreed. He didn't budge though; Stanton Dean was out of his repair hangar and coming over, and the old merc turned to face the owner of the field.

"Hey Pops," Dean greeted him as he came close. "Guess you're all set to go, huh."

"Yep."

"Heading out without paying up, Eli's gonna be straight pissed. Guess that means you ain't coming back this way, huh."

"Looks that way."

"Figured. Well, I just wanted to say something," Dean said, and Pappagallo tilted his cap brim up and gave the man his full attention. "You're a right good sort and I'll miss having you around. You're a hardass and a cold fish for sure, but a damn good wingmate too. Good luck Pops, and good hunting."

"Good luck yourself, Stan," said Pappagallo. Dean offered his hand, and Pops clasped it tight. It was likely that the raggedy tinker was the closest thing to a friend he'd had for all the years he'd been here.

That was it, he realized. Saying goodbye to Dean was the one thing he had left to do, and with that over there was nothing keeping him here. He turned and strode back to the gunship with long, fast strides, and Owan scrambled to keep up as Pistor and Brinnlitz fell in.

Moments later, the gunship was out of the hangar and taxied to the end of the runway. The runway light turned green, signaling that Dean had given clearance to depart. In the cockpit, Pappagallo hit the throttle and they were off, up into the crimson sky.

x x x x x

_**Mid-altitude flight over planet Cygnus Alpha  
****NT-V5 modified King Cobra gunship: ISS Ranger, 6000 m. above surface**_

"_Gunstar_, _Nomad_, this is _Ranger_," Pappagallo signaled O'Hara and Kano, whose ships were departing from different landing fields. "I am wheels-up and twenty minutes from stratosphere. We'll meet at 212, 134 at 10,000 meters and leave atmosphere together. Understood?"

"_Ranger_, this is _Nomad_, copy loud and clear," came Harry's voice in response. The younger merc was flying an arrowhead-shaped AD-22b Panther II interceptor, modified to the point where it could accept heavy weapons and hyperspeed roles as well.

"_Ranger_, _Gunstar_, copy that." came Kano's voice. He had a crucifix-shaped HA-130 Super Starhawk multi-role fighter, also extensively modified to allow cryostasis and hyperspeed travel. Pappagallo's manta-like heavy gunship was the only vessel which was originally designed for hyperspeed.

Atmospheric escape was as harrowing as it always was, with the dust particulate in the atmosphere scrambling sensors and causing intense friction heat, but everyone kept their course straight and nobody melted. It seemed like clear skies all the way to outer space.

But then a group of small signals appeared behind them, rapidly accelerating from a geostationary satellite above North Cross City.

"All units, _Gunstar_," came Kano's voice almost immediately. "I have cluster missiles incoming."

"_Gunstar_, _Nomad_! Is that confirmed? What the hell, Eli's trying to kill us?"

"All ships, evade evade!" Pops barked into the comm.

"I'll do you one better," radioed Harry. "_Gunstar_, let's throttle back and draw them away from _Ranger_! We can dodge the bastards, Pops can't!"

"Roger that _Nomad, Gunstar_ is breaking off."

"Don't get caught in the soup!" warned Pappagallo, referring to the drag of the upper atmosphere. "_Ranger_ is heading for the asteroid rings, good luck boys!"

"Seems Eli's having a temper tantrum," commented Pistor, grimacing as their sharp acceleration pressed him into the copilot's seat. The gunship had a full control cabin with seats for copilot, operations, comms, engineer and gunner, and the two mercs and the Sanjivan had taken the seats to which they were best suited.

"He wants to make an example of us," said Brinnlitz, transmitting via headset from the gunner's chair. "One doesn't cross the bridge without paying the troll, and a number of us have stepped on his tail to boot."

"Pops? How much trouble are we in?" asked Eve from the operations chair.

"Depends how many missiles we're looking at," he replied. "We got ECM and flares, we should be okay. Brinnlitz, Pistor, you should take the wing turrets just in case."

"How about me?" said a familiar voice from the rear of the cabin. Pappagallo started, twisted around with pistol drawn to see the young man from the bar at the rear, hanging on to the hand rails at the hatch.

"What the _fuck_?" Pops snarled. "What are you doing on my ship?"

"I stowed away," said the lad with an irreverent smile. "I also noticed that you've got a tail gun back there, and I've got my gunnery badge. How about it, can I help?"

Pappagallo thought about it for all of three seconds, then barked out "Go!". Struggling against the rising G-force, the lad and the two mercs moved out. Pops wasn't happy, but now wasn't the time.

"Pops, there are an awful lot of missiles coming at us," said Eve a moment later. "From what I am reading, Kano has pulled off close to half of them, but that still leaves over twenty on our tail. And… confirmed! Second launch from North Cross killsat!"

"Eli's got a bug up his ass over something, that's for sure," Pappagallo muttered. "We'll worry about that second launch when it gets here, right now I need you to take control of the ECM jammer. I trust your hand over the automatics, see what you can do."

A faint shudder went through the ship as the tail gun opened fire, then the two wing guns followed. Contrary to what O'Hara might have thought, this particular NT-V5 gunship was capable of a few highspeed maneuvers itself, and Pappagallo hauled at the stick to evade the first arriving missiles.

Racing up behind the gunship, Kano's heavy fighter engaged the swarming missiles even as it was dodging its own pursuers. White light flared between the two ships as searing plasma bursts flew through space. Caught in the crossfire between Pops and Kano's guns and dazzled by ECM and popping flares, the cluster missiles fell one by one. Then, the fighter pulled back and deftly jinked away from the remaining weapons on its tail, and the missile threat was no more.

"All right, now for that second launch," said Pappagallo with some tense satisfaction.

"Uh, cancel that. Second launch is not… not a threat," said Eve.

"What? What do you mean, 'not a threat'?"

"I thought I picked up something, it looked like a ship moving to intercept the group, and then they all blinked out. There is nothing there," she reported, with considerable confusion.

"All ships, this is _Ranger_," Pops radioed out. "Are you reading any other ships or missiles in vicinity?"

"_Ranger, Gunstar_. No contacts."

"_Ranger, Nomad_, my scanner's all clear. Just us up here, alive and well!"

"Neither of you took a hit? Alright, good job you two."

"_Gunstar _got all the fun," complained O'Hara, but Pappagallo could hear the good-spirited grin in his voice. "Snatched up all the fish in our group and then went after your group too! Greedy bastard, ain't he?"

"All ships,_ Ranger_. Let's get away from NC City while our luck holds. I need to hold orbit for a little while, I might have to go back down and jettison some baggage."

"Say again, _Ranger_? You got baggage to drop?"

"I'll tell you about it later. Keep in contact, _Ranger_ out."

Pappagallo engaged the autopilot and waited till all the minor course corrections had been made and the ship was flying level and stable. Then he unclasped his flight harness and got up. He didn't have far to go; the man he wanted to see was being marched back to the control cabin between Pistor and Brinnlitz.

"I don't take kindly to stowaways, mister," growled Pops to the lad. The young man had his own wire headset, so he didn't have to shout.

"And I duly apologize for that, of course," was the well-spoken reply, though it sounded more eager than apologetic. "But seeing that we're both here now, why not make the best of it?"

Pappagallo fastened ice-cold eyes on the lad, who stilled under his withering gaze. "You're walking on the razor's edge now. Answer me straight up and maybe I'll land and let you off instead of tossing your ass out the airlock. For a start, how the hell did you get past my security?"

"Oh, while I was touring Mister Dean's facilities, I noticed the lovely Arcturan lady there had a CTAC container to load on," he answered, smiling a little as Owan whirled in her seat to stare at him in surprise. "Those will happily accept human cargo – the first 'C' stands for cryogenic, after all. Made for a comfy ride through atmo-escape, and I'm pretty sure your cameras don't have X-ray capabilities."

"You've got some stones on you, friend," said Pistor. "What if you ran out of air in there? What if we'd stacked something on that crate so you couldn't get out?"

"I had my own mask and headset," the lad shrugged. "I had safeguards, and it was a calculated risk that I was willing to accept. I had to do it, it was the only way to get to Naraka Prime."

"Why?" asked Pappagallo. "What's so all-fired important on Sanjiva that you had to risk getting airlocked for it?"

"That is where I believe my father currently makes his haunt," he answered. "I've tracked him a long way to find Cygnus Alpha, and I believe he's since gone on to Sanjiva. This is something of great personal importance to me, Mister Pappagallo. I am not merely some callow young adventurer."

Pappagallo wrinkled his brow. Now this was something he hadn't expected. The lad saw his chance and quickly spoke up.

"Please let me come with you sir! I'm not deadweight, I'm a trained spacer with my creds in cryo, mech and astro, and I've done contracts for the Freespace Guild. That thing in the bar was out of frustration, it won't happen again. I can work for my passage, and I can help you on Sanjiva, just give me a chance!"

Pappagallo's gaze moved over to Brinnlitz, who smiled and shrugged. "He's not lying. The lad speaks with his heart and believes everything he says. Delicious, isn't it?"

Pappagallo turned to Owan next, who also shrugged. "I admit I am impressed with what he has accomplished. He is not a 'scrub' after all, is he? And he is here essentially for free, why not give him a chance?"

The old merc was quiet for a long moment. The fellow in question looked like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin, but he didn't speak up. Eventually, Pops spoke again: "Just one last question then. What's your name?"

"My name is Dameon Aedon, sir," said the young man. Eve looked about ready to faint when she heard that.

"Aedon? Aedon is your name?" said Pappagallo in a low, dangerous tone.

"Yes sir. Usires Aedon is my father," said the lad, his voice intense with emotion. "He likes to force himself on women, which is how I was made. For my mother's sake, I intend to make certain he never hurts another woman ever again."

"Oh my," Brinnlitz breathed. "Now wouldn't that be the greatest poetic justice you could imagine? Pops, you have to let this young fellow come just for that!"

Pappagallo turned back to Eve. "Are you absolutely sure you want him aboard? Say the word, and he's gone."

"No, it is alright," she said, a little shaky. "I believe him. He knows what his father is like, and he is the very image of him. I think he should have his chance."

The old merc didn't like this at all. Even if his motivations were true, the young one's interaction with his father could very well cause a change of loyalties down the line. But it wasn't for Pops to say, it was the boss's call.

"Welcome aboard, Mister Aedon," he said. Dameon Aedon pumped his fist and let out a whoop.

Now they were six. And, had they understood the nature of the briefly glimpsed fourth ship, they would have known that they were, in fact, seven.

x x x x x

_Author's notes:_

_Okay, this is absolutely the last chapter of lead-up, we can finally leave Cygnus Alpha and get to the action and the fighting and the aliens, ho-hoy! I've seen some stories here with meteoric premises that fizzled when it was time for the meat of the tale, and I'm hoping that my own story doesn't likewise end up all mouth and no trousers, so to speak._

_A special thank-you goes out to reader and reviewer Thug-4-Less, who has been faithfully keeping track and commenting on new chapters every time they go out. Hey man, you're a big reason why I'm still writing this thing in the first place. Now if only I could attract a few more great fellows like yourself..._

_- SA_


	7. Alpha Strike

CHAPTER 7: ALPHA STRIKE

_**Omega Cygni star system a.k.a. "Naraka" in the Cygnus Star Region  
Now passing inner orbit of Planet Arbuda  
Mercenary task force approaching Planet Sanjiva, all vessels running silent**_

In the vast empty space between worlds, three spacecraft flew through the void, and the great cloudy-blue sphere that was Sanjiva loomed before them.

There was a small, fast interceptor fighter shaped like an arrowhead, with its engine where the arrow shaft would fit. There was a heavy all-purpose warfighter, a cross shape with one elongated spoke as its nose and two short weapon-laden wings. And there was a large and powerful gunship, its wings wide and sweeping like a manta ray, completing a balanced unit with all roles filled. All were unlit and unpowered, dark shapes in the blackness of space, hurtling toward Sanjiva with only their inertia propelling them.

"I see them now," radioed Tristan O'Hara to his team, using tight-beam transmissions to keep the airways clear. "They're not damping their emissions, that means they ain't expecting trouble. Confirm three Navajo dropships, three modded couriers, one orbiting space station. Where the hell did all that come from? That's a lot more than a frigate and two shuttles, mate."

"Wasn't Eve's fault. She gave us the intel she had," answered Piers Pappagallo from his gunship. "This job just got complicated, folks. We'll have to tackle the command ship down the line, but right now we need to plan for these pukes here, for the damn couriers especially. Let's get the best survey of their force strength while we have time."

Within the gunship's command cabin, Eve Owan frowned in puzzlement. She turned off her headset mic, leaned forward in the operations chair and reached over to the copilot's seat to touch Amon Pistor's shoulder.

"Why the concern over these courier craft? They are just civilian messenger ships, no?" she asked.

"They are," the small man answered in his low, grave voice. "But they're built for high-performance speed and acrobatics, to protect the package when trouble comes a-knocking. And with just a little illicit modification, they can be refitted into fine interceptors. No matter what else we do, those little ships will be hounding our heels all the way. And should we turn our attention to them, they'll lead us a merry chase while their friends have their way with us. They are very much a cause for concern."

"Ah, but only if their pilots are actually worth a flying fart," Hans Brinnlitz pointed out, nonchalantly. "I'm no flyboy myself, but from what I've seen, you need to be top of your class to handle one of those things. And outworld pirates don't usually go to flight school."

"I have a more precise read on the satellite," Nikola Kano was transmitting in the meantime. "Small installation, modular, between six and nine modules distributed over a main body and three arms. The data suggests a scanner and comms array at the top of the main body, two unspecified gun turrets on the central shaft, and a variety of warhead launchers on the arms."

"The ships are all refitted with teeth, but that's probably all we're gonna get on 'em without active scanning. They just aren't putting out enough passive signal to get a clean read." O'Hara added. "Okay, that's what we got. I'm betting you already got a plan all figured out General, care to share it?"

"Well, that gun platform is obviously the greatest threat to the colony," said Pappagallo. "They'll have bombs, maybe nukes. And they can penetrate the atmospheric EM interference and radio their ground forces to make reprisals on the civvies. I'd like to have a client by the end of this day, gentlemen. I'm calling the platform our primary target."

"Then we should target the sensor/comms array first, to sever contact with the planet and hamper their combat management," said Kano. "Then, target the main body rather than the individual pods. This is a prefabricated civilian satellite, very unlikely to have significant armour."

"Okay, then let's put the three rocketeers next on the hit list," Harry proposed. "I'd like to have an intact tailpipe by the end of the day, myself."

"All agreed? Alright then, here's how I see it going down," said Pappagallo. "We run silent to get as close as we can, and as soon as they twitch, I'll jam their comms and we'll jet for the platform with _Gunstar_ and _Ranger_. _Gunstar_ is faster and can get there first, but that means she'll take the alpha strike from all seven bandits. Can you handle it, Kano?"

"I can. If we are lucky, they will continue to focus all their attention on me, leaving you free to finish your attack run."

"Whoa! Brother, listen here! I don't care how good you are, you know and I know that six fighters at once _will_ take you down!" O'Hara protested to Kano.

"Yep, and that's where our wild card comes in. That's you, Harry," said Pops. "You'll have to decide where you and that fast ship of yours can do the most good: backing up Kano, assaulting the platform directly, or staying on my wing. You're the only one quick enough to switch roles as the situation changes."

"Lucky me," Harry said, wryly. "Well, guess I'll be going wherever their zoomers go. They're the ones who could cock it up the most, whether it's gangbanging one of us or running point-defense for the station."

"Right then. _Ranger_ should finish off the platform at the end of the run, and we can dogfight it out from there. We see any loose nukes, God forbid, we target them first. And if we completely blow it and have to retreat, we fall back to the planet and land somewhere uninhabited. They may not retaliate against the colony straight away; they won't know who the hell we are or why we engaged. But they'll figure it out if we land right in Threshold for repairs. That's my best plan, anyone have any different ideas?"

"That includes you folks," said Pops to the others in his ship, twisting in his chair to look around the control cabin. "I'm not the head honcho. Any thoughts? Boss?"

"I have a smashing idea," said Dameon Aedon, a mischievous smile coming to his lips. "Why don't you just wire the 'rats, and I'll pretend to be my dad and get us free passage?"

He looked about the room, from Pappagallo's cold gaze to Owan's bewildered one. Pistor was emotionless, and Brinnlitz was smiling as usual but seemed more amused at Aedon himself then his crack.

"Tough crowd," Dameon shrugged. "You know, a little humour in tense situations has been known to increase job-related performance by a signif-"

"That's actually not a bad idea," Pappagallo interrupted him. Aedon was stunned speechless. "Miss Owan mentioned that your voice was close to your old man's. I don't want to risk it here, not with guns pointed at the colony. But keep that one under your hat."

"Not a bad idea maybe, but pretty lame for humour," said Harry, though he actually did sound rather amused.

"All right then, listen up," said Pappagallo, his voice turning grim. "The results of this first attack are going to set the course for the rest of the war. If they warn the ground forces, if they land a nuke, if one of us buys the farm, all of that fundamentally changes what we'll need to do next to achieve victory. Once we start, it's going to be run-and-gun all the way to the surface and onward all night long, we can't stop until the colony is safe. This is our alpha strike, folks. Make it count."

"Damn straight we will. We'll hit 'em like the wrath of God," promised O'Hara.

"I shall not fail," said Kano simply.

"We've all been waiting for this. We're ready," said Pistor, to which Aedon exclaimed "Amen to that!" from the back. Brinnlitz silently tightened his gloves and smiled a predatory smile, and Eve Owan felt a rush of excitement as she looked about the cabin and listened to the comms. Here were the warriors she had found for Sanjiva's salvation, and she was proud to stand with them.

"Alright, radio silence in ten seconds, people," Pops rumbled. "We've got maybe half an hour before they spot us, and then five or ten minutes more before the fireworks start. Let's do this."

x x x x x

"Is this all you pricks do up here?" groused Joachim Sarc. He had let his courier fighter drift away from the patrol route of his two wingmen, and he couldn't care less. "Just fly around in circles pretending like you're good for something?"

"Shut up, fuckhole," growled the wingleader Stavros. "You're stuck out here like the rest of us, so stop flapping your lips. Boss wants to conserve fuel, it's his call."

"If he really wanted to conserve fuel, he'd station us on the planet. What's the fucking point of flying CAP up here anyway? As if there was anything to shoot at on the whole damn outer rim."

"Look on the bright side man," said the other courier pilot, Troy. "Another two days till the end of the week, and we'll be back on-planet again, bagging booty like no tomorrow. Hey, remember the last time we went with the boss to their control room? Remember that little redhead bitch in the corner?"

"Oh hell yeah. Huge tits on such a skinny little thing, eh? And what an ass!" said Sarc, a smile coming to his lips. "Next time I see her, I'm gonna bend her over right there and…"

"And nothing, man! I called dibs on her, remember?"

"Settle down, you shitheads!" Stavros snapped.

"Take it easy Troy! We can share, right?" Sarc proposed. "Let's take turns and ride her all night, how about that? Hell, how about we do her at the same time? We could…"

Sarc stopped his fantasizing as a group of icons appeared on his sensor screen with an accompanying chime. He frowned, adjusted his scan to focus on the signal.

"Wait a minute, I got something on passive scan," he warned his team. "Three blips, small size, no heat or power. Coming in fast, passing close to the platform."

"Let's move to intercept," said Stavros. "Probably just meteors, but we should…"

Whatever the team leader was going to say next was abruptly drowned out in a yowling screech of static. Cursing, Sarc turned down the volume on his headset and turned up the gain on his vessel's comms.

"Stavros! What the hell, I've lost you! Petrov, are you reading me?" Sarc yelped, calling the base platform next, with no better result.

Then, he saw on his screen that the status readouts on the three blips had changed. The displays now indicated that the blips were putting out sizeable heat and power emissions, and were accelerating fast. One blip was moving away from the others, quickly pulling ahead, and it had released a number of smaller blips that were racing toward him at supersonic speeds.

That was when it finally hit him.

"Holy… shit," he breathed. "We're under attack."

x x x x x

Swooping down from above, Nikola Kano's space superiority fighter fell upon the startled pirate force like a thunderbolt from the heavens. All six pirate craft and their gun platform opened fire on Kano's _Gunstar _simultaneously, but not one plasma bolt, mass driver slug or seeker missile could find its mark on the speeding, spiraling fighter.

Kano's weapons answered, tearing through the scattering pirates with merciless precision. The stationary platform was hit first, the whole installation shuddering as its comms array and several structural modules vanished in fiery blasts of white-hot plasma.

Then _Gunstar_ turned to the three heavily armed pirate dropships and raked them with her guns, and the lead ship futilely twisted and dodged before its drive core ruptured and destroyed the craft in a violent conflagration.

The three nimble ex-courier interceptors fared better, evading _Gunstar_'s missiles and suffering only glancing hits from her plasma guns. But they only pursued her for a moment before the leader's comms managed to penetrate the blanket of static and reach his wingmates.

Flight Leader Stavros: "Troy! Sarc! Forget the goddamn fighter, there's a fucking _missile boat_ going for the station! Follow my lead you stupid cunts!"

_Gunstar_ was now under heavy attack by the remaining dropships and the gun platform, and Kano could do little to stop the interceptors as they rushed away at extreme speed.

A distance away, the rest of the mercenary team watched the fireworks display as they approached. Aboard the fast-attack ship _Nomad_, Tristan O'Hara smiled as he observed the three interceptors peeling away from the main battle.

_Oho, had enough of that already? Can't say I blame you, the man's a demon_, Harry silently sympathized with the approaching pirates, and turned his ship to intercept. _Well, looks like it's my turn now._

Waiting patiently for the right moment, _Nomad _suddenly boosted away from the gunship _Ranger_'s side and caught the three fast pirate craft just at the edge of _Ranger_'s effective weapon range. Interceptor fought against interceptor as the battle went underway, and the gunship let loose with a broadside of plasma whenever any of the pirates drifted away from _Nomad_'s close vicinity.

Even outnumbered three to one, Harry was trained, talented and experienced, and he had a fine-tuned high performance ship. None of the pirate interceptors could get a bead on him, and he repeatedly scored minor hits on his three attackers. However, nobody could manage a killing strike, and after a time, first one and then two of the pirates managed to break off and engage _Ranger _directly.

Piers Pappagallo and his well-tweaked gunship were perfectly capable of dogfighting as well, but every maneuver took them further off course from the enemy satellite, the primary target of the attack. Growing worried and impatient, Pops tried his best to have it both ways, keeping mostly on course for the gun platform while twisting his ship about to give his turrets the best field of view and to get away from concentrated fire. But time was swiftly and inexorably running out.

With only one interceptor on his tail, Harry quickly outmaneuvered his pursuer and blasted the pirate's ship apart in a spray of fire and shrapnel. He then turned his attention to the two that were attacking _Ranger_, but to his surprise, Pops dampened the jamming so he could communicate.

"_Nomad, _this is_ Ranger_! Disengage and go all-jets for that platform right now! They could launch any second, and Kano's pinned down!"

Pops grunted and yanked at the flight stick as he felt his wing take a glancing blow at that moment. _This is just one more fight out of all the dozens I've had_, he thought to himself in a moment of lucidity. _I'll survive one way or another. The only question is whether the mission ends up a success or a failure._

"Negative _Ranger_!" Harry radioed back. "Cluster missiles are inbound and you're locked up as it is! You need me on point defense!"

"_Nomad_ we're in trouble here, so listen up! I can handle these two punks, just head for that platform and strafe the missiles on the way. Now go!"

"_Ranger_, we…"

Whatever else Harry would have said was lost as a massive explosion brightened space for an instant like a miniature sun. Where the tri-armed pirate gun platform had been, there was now a fading ball of flame in the center of a rapidly expanding cloud of shattered debris. The platform had been destroyed.

Shocked, the pirate fighters hesitated for a lethal instant, and the mercenaries reflexively pounced, Harry and Pops each destroying an interceptor and Kano a dropship. The remaining dropship turned and ran, but weird blue pulses of light suddenly flew out of nowhere, destroying the craft in a hail of fire.

The mercs spent a minute of frantic maneuvering and shooting to deal with the remaining enemy missiles flying all over the battlefield.

And then, abruptly, the fight was over.

x x x x x

Uncertain what was going on, Pappagallo ceased radio interference and went open-channel, just in time to receive O'Hara's cry of triumph.

"Huzzah! We won!" said Harry jubilantly, just barely keeping his volume inside the bounds of radio protocol. "_Nomad_ to all ships, confirm all hostiles down! Bloody nice job on the platform Kano!"

"_Nomad_, _Gunstar_. Scratch six mobiles, scratch one station," said Kano coolly. "But I didn't kill the platform. Someone else did."

"All ships, _Ranger_," Pappagallo signaled. "Confirm all pirates down, but stay alert! There's somebody else out here!"

"Sir! All commies cooked, sir!"

The transmission was open-channel, the male voice distorted as if from a bad microphone and sporting a lurid American accent. There was no apparent source.

"What the…! Who the hell is this?" O'Hara responded, sharply.

"Unknown ship, this is _ISS Ranger_. Identify yourself," radioed Pappagallo in a more professional manner.

Seeing nothing on passive, the old merc switched to focus scan and this time picked something up: a heavy shuttle-sized mass, within the periphery of the expanding debris cloud that was all that was left of the pirate satellite.

That gave him pause. How could a space ship be holding position in a place like that? It should be matching the speed of the flying wreckage and coasting out, otherwise it would be hammered to pieces. Yet there it was, seemingly unaffected by the dozens of collisions it had to be sustaining, and only something with a propulsion system could stay so completely still.

"Repeat, identify yourself," Pappagallo transmitted again. This time, there was a response.

"Hey, I'm friendly. I'm just a country girl," said a woman's voice, sultry sounding, and just as distorted as the first voice.

"Meredith Morrow, Lunar Blues," said Owan, softly, from behind the old merc's seat. Pappagallo stiffened in his chair.

"_Jack?_" Harry exclaimed at the same time as Pops, evidently having reached the same conclusion.

"We call him Jack," said Pappagallo's own voice, distorted slightly but much more clear than the previous transmissions.

"_Ranger_ to… Jack. Did you blow up that space station?" Pappagallo asked, amazed.

"You got it kid! Hole in one!"

"Is that your ship I'm seeing inside the wreckage zone?"

"You got it kid! Hole in one!"

"Jesus jetpacks!" Harry exclaimed. "Jack, you… you saved our bacon back there, man! Thank you!"

"I don't know how you did it big guy, but you really helped us," said Pappagallo, a little more cautiously. "I gotta ask though, why'd you do it? Are you going down to the planet?"

"I wanna come along, Marvin. Take me with you!" answered Jack in his child's voice. Within his gunship, the old merc nodded slowly in comprehension. _That's what he wanted all along, soon as he saw Eve's rock._

"If you want to join our mission, well that's not up to me to decide. Let me talk to my boss and we'll see," said Pappagallo, and he turned off the external comms.

"Is that supposed to be the same Jack as the big freak in uptown Nor'Cross?" said Pistor, as he entered the cabin and made his way to the copilot's chair. "You're telling me he has a hyperspeed-capable ship? And enough skill and firepower to win a space battle?"

"All of that and more," drawled Brinnlitz, coming in right behind him. "He snuck in and ambushed that station when everyone was at their most alert, scanning for missiles and the like. Nobody saw him on either side. Quite a feat."

"At the very least, Jack possesses a ship with a sophisticated emissions-masking system and an extremely high-powered weapons delivery system," said Owan, looking to Pappagallo as he twisted in his chair to regard her. "That alone makes him worth the hire, and we do not know what other devices he may have. If anything, I worry that we might not be able to afford him."

"Hold on here, Miss Owan. There's a problem," Pappagallo cautioned. "If I read this right, we're talking about a sick man who could be brain-damaged and confused, who happens to be at the controls of a hefty fighting ship. Is this someone you want on our wing when we go atmospheric?"

"Brain-damaged and confused, my ass," Dameon Aedon scoffed before Eve could answer. "To fly a starship you need to do hundreds of precise operations hour by hour, you old stick-jockeys should know that. And we're not even talking about space combat here! You think somebody who's even slightly unhinged could manage that level of alertness and decision-making skill? Come on!"

"I am inclined to agree," said Owan with a slight smile. "I think we should hire Jack, Mister Pappagallo. Unless you are strongly opposed to it."

"I am not, Miss Owan. Best to do it here and now, there won't be time after we make planetfall," said Pappagallo, and he settled himself in his chair and turned the comms back on.

"Okay Jack, here's the deal," Pops transmitted to the enigmatic spacer. "One C-grade fusion cell with room and board on Sanjiva in exchange for combat services. And if you…"

"That's the best idea I've heard all day!" Jack interrupted with an enthusiastic male voice, and then switched back to the sultry female voice: "I'm all yours, sweetheart."

"Right," said the old merc slowly. Jack hadn't even tried to barter, just snapped up the scant opening deal before he could finish laying it out. "Welcome to the team."

"Great to have you aboard mate!" added Harry warmly, to which Jack answered "Thanks a million," in a somber male voice.

"One more thing, Jack. We're not getting a transponder signal from your ship, we'll need a callsign to ID her. What's your ship called?" asked Pappagallo.

There was a long pause. Then came Jack's answer: "These are the voyages of the starship _Enterprise_."

There was a squeak of stifled feminine laughter from the chair behind Pops. Dameon coughed several times, eyes watering, and Harry loudly cleared his throat to suppress his own mirth. Even Pappagallo found the corner of his mouth twitching. After all the tension of the battle, this latest absurdity was something of a shock to the system.

"Okay _Enterprise_, callsign confirmed. Repeat, _Enterprise_ confirmed."

"All units, _Gunstar_. My scanner is clear for the region," said Kano of a sudden, evidently not amused. "Let's make for the Threshold nav marker and get to the surface, we have work to do."

"Roger that, _Gunstar._ _Ranger_ to all ships, you heard the man – let's move! _Enterprise_, take point and set a course for the central colony complex, we'll follow your lead."

"Your wish is my command," answered a mellifluous female voice, and within the distant debris cloud before _Ranger's_ cockpit canopy, there was a tiny flare of light as an unseen vessel fired its thrusters.

Now they were seven. And they had tasted first blood.

x x x x x

_**Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," central colony complex  
Mesa topside airfield, east docking alcove, vicinity of pad 1**_

Threshold's central complex was built around the base of a giant, towering column of stone, reaching skyward from the middle of one of the larger canyons. Nicknamed "Nirvana Tower," it was the hub of the colony, with many surrounding buildings and structures on the canyon floor and in the sides of the canyon. The central complex itself went up some ten stories inside the tower, but above that was only the elevator shafts, going up over two kilometers to the small airfield built into the summit.

Four armed spacecraft circled the tower and then hovered into the cavernous docking alcove in the east wall, and Chief Administrator Anemona Sagan emerged from the personnel elevator just in time to see them coming in. The colony director waited for the battle-scarred ships to touch down on their landing pads, her short grey hair rippling in the howling wind. Then she spoke briefly into her wire headset, and the giant hangar doors slowly lowered and sealed the docking alcove away from Sanjiva's stormy skies.

Sagan recognized three of the ship models, renowned fighting craft that she had seen on a few magazine covers and air show vids in her time. All were named after animals; a cobra, a panther, a hawk. But the forth one was a peculiar vessel, a bizarre and asymmetrical thing, looking like nothing more than a collection of ship parts and industrial junk all cobbled together into something of a strange, menacing grace.

The pilots were emerging now, and Sagan turned her attention to them. All were in flight suits lined with hoses and safety gear. The two from the starfighters were out of their cockpits first, both caucasians, one a youngish blond man with a twinkle in his eye and an outlandish widebrim hat, the other a dark-haired man with a plain, aloof face of complete calmness.

The two proceeded not to her but to the gunship, moving to join the group coming down its ramp. The tall one in the forefront Sagan immediately recognized as the leader, a hard-looking man with a navy cap on his head and the coldest blue eyes she had ever seen. There were two other men in the forefront with the leader, one a small man with a somber and serious mien, and the other a gentle-faced black man with black gloves.

The two in the back came forward as the whole group started coming toward her, and Sagan started in shock when she saw them. At first she thought the spacers had somehow captured the leader of the pirates and were bringing him in, but she quickly realized that the handsome youth she saw with them wasn't Aedon but someone who looked very like him, possibly a relative. And the last of the men wasn't a man at all but… Eve! Beautiful golden-skinned Eve Owan, returning to Naraka Prime!

"Eve!" Sagan called out to her. "What… what are you…!"

"Ana!" Eve cried out excitedly. The Arcturan rushed up to her and grabbed her in a big hug, eliciting a surprised laugh from the administrator. Then Owan caught herself and stepped back to give a proper report, blushing endearingly.

"Mission accomplished ma'am," said Eve. "Six contractors with four combat starships, ready for action!"

"You disobeyed your order not to return, merchant flight officer," said Sagan primly, but then offered a smile. "But we'll discuss that later. Introductions?"

"Of course. This is Mister Piers Pappagallo, the team leader," said Owan, indicating the old spacer, who nodded and touched his cap brim. Then she turned to each of the others in turn: "Mister Amon Pistor, pilot and technician. Mister Hans Brinnlitz, sniper and covert ops. Mister Tristan O'Hara, combat pilot. Mister Nikola Kano, combat pilot. And Mister Dameon Aedon, er… combat volunteer."

"How do you do, milady," said the young Aedon, stepping forward, and he did a sweeping bow, catching Sagan's fingers as he did so and placing a sudden kiss on the back of her hand. Sagan was shocked, again. It was goofy and endearing to be sure, but it was also creepy in that it was very much like something the pirate leader might do. It couldn't be a coincidence that this lad bore the same name.

"Oh, and there is Mister, er, Jack." Owan added, looking over to the junk sculpture starship and at the person who had emerged from underneath. Sagan would have been rather intimidated to see the giant, clawed, armour-clad figure, except that it was shuffling over to them with one arm flopping, as though it had a broken leg and shoulder. The figure nodded and said in a very distorted radio voice: "We call him Jack." It was the strangest addition to what was otherwise a very professional, hardened and grizzled looking team.

"This is Chief Administrator Anemona Sagan, my boss," the Arcturan concluded, looking to the mercs now. "She will be taking charge from this point on."

"Gentlemen," said Sagan, scarcely able to believe it all. Was this the beginning of the end of Threshold's long nightmare? "We've been praying for this day. Welcome, and thank you."

"Director Sagan," the tall mercenary leader acknowledged her. "Sorry to cut this short, but there's a situation going down right now and we need to move fast. You have an operations center? Good, let's walk and talk."

"What situation? Give me a sit-rep," ordered Sagan as the two women and the mercs moved into the large personnel elevator at the end of the hangar.

"Well, put simply, there were some very unfriendly pirate types guarding the skies when we arrived," explained O'Hara. "We cleaned them out pretty good, that's the good news. Problem is, their buddies on the ground are gonna find out sooner or later, and then they're going to come looking for payback."

"Payback? Against you?" Sagan asked.

"If they figure things out, they'll want to punish the whole colony for taking us in," said Brinnlitz, in a nonchalant tone that sent a chill up Sagan's spine.

"The first phase of the campaign begins tonight," said Pappagallo grimly. "Threshold is made up of one main base surrounded by scattered homesteads, correct? Well I want every homesteader inside this complex before sunrise, and I want a comprehensive defense plan to protect them. When those pirates come looking for payback, they're gonna find nothing but empty homesteads out there and a faceful of heavy guns waiting for 'em in here."

"That's what we need to organize, on the double," he concluded. "Miss Sagan, get your staff ready for action. We'll do the planning in your operations center. Understood, all of you?"

There were nods from the mercenaries, some murmurs of acknowledgement. Then there was silence for a time, save for the whooshing hum of the highspeed elevator. Jack occasionally emitted a sonorous electronic hum and swayed in his great boots, hunched over as he was under the roof of the lift.

"Mister Pappagallo… is it possible for you to make your plans and then let me convey them to my staff by proxy?" Sagan reluctantly asked, after a time.

"By proxy? What do you mean 'by proxy'?" Pappagallo asked, eyes narrowing. "What's the problem here?"

Sagan pursed her lips and was silent a moment while she considered what to say, but just then the elevator braked and slowly came to a halt, and the doors opened.

"This way please," she said instead, and led them onward through the halls of level three.

Old Doc Ryszard and the gaunt Engineer Konrad were waiting in the expansive Operations and Administration Room, jumping to their feet to face the mercs as they entered. The two senior staff were, however, the only Sanjivans in a room built for fifty.

"Doctor Ryszard, Officer Konrad, this is Piers Pappagallo and his team, and they're ready to roll," Sagan announced. "It looks like we'll be having a busy night tonight."

"Thank you for coming to help us," said the Doc. "You must have gone through a lot of trouble to get here, we appreciate it."

"What the heck is going on?" said O'Hara unexpectedly, taking off his hat and looking one way and the next. "Where is everybody?"

"Director Sagan, do you usually staff your main control room with only two personnel?" asked Pistor, frowning.

"When we saw the explosions in the sky, well, there were some concerns," said Sagan awkwardly. "There were some precautions the staff…"

"They're afraid," Brinnlitz interrupted with a delighted smile, as if savouring the moment. "More men with guns coming from the sky, it's like a second coming of the pirates to them. They let their leaders greet the bad men while they ran off to hide, don't you see?"

"Oh I cannot believe this!" Eve Owan cried, infuriated. She stomped over to the comms desk, snatched the receiver out of its bracket.

"Attention all staff," she said sharply, her voice sounding from every intercom speaker in the room and in all the rooms and halls of the complex. "This is Eve Owan. We are not in danger, the visitors are not a threat. They are here to help us, and I can vouch for them. Please report to the operations center immediately. Repeat, all staff to the operations center immediately."

"We don't have time for this," Pappagallo growled.

"I'm sorry," apologized Sagan. "We were caught off-guard by your arrival. This is all happening very fast for some very scared people."

"Hey Pops. Go easy on 'em. Giving help is toughest when they don't know they're being helped," said Harry with a calm smile, and Pappagallo eventually shrugged and pulled up a chair.

"Ten minutes," said the old merc, tugging his cap brim downward. "Then we move on with or without 'em."

The mercs dispersed and got comfortable, and waited. Pistor found a spot close to the window where he could keep tabs on everything inside and outside the ops center. Kano took a seat at the radar desk, while O'Hara sat near the center of the room with Pops and the four Sanjivans. Brinnlitz idly strolled around the big room; Jack slumped down in a dark corner and was as still and silent as a corpse. And Aedon stepped around the curve of the room to explore the offices and vanished from view.

Owan stayed at the comms desk and talked to Pappagallo and Sagan for a time, asking about what had happened while she was away, and helping answer some of the old merc's tactical questions about the layout of the central complex. Then she turned on the intercom and repeated her order to come to the ops center, to no avail.

"You'll have to excuse them," said the Doc sadly. "They're terraforming colonists, civilians. Nobody thought they would end up prisoners on their own land. Those scumbags out there, they've done a good job making us feel unsafe every hour of the day and night. I'm afraid that trust doesn't come easy anymore."

"No need to apologize," said Pappagallo without looking up. "We weren't expecting flowers and speeches."

Whatever the Doc was going to say in answer was lost as an alarm rang out from the intercom speakers. "Alert Condition One, Alert Condition One. This is not a drill. All personnel to action stations," blared an automated voice as klaxons and flashers went off all around.

Alert Condition One was the highest state of emergency readiness that could be declared by a Weyland-Yutani colony. It signaled imminent full-scale attack from space, from meteorites, bombs, or invading armies. Condition One had only been declared a handful of times in the history of the colony, and that was from the pirates' first incursion and from subsequent nuclear attacks. It was, obviously, the worst possible state to be in.

"Everybody check the consoles! Find out what's going on!" Pappagallo bellowed, and Sagan added to that a yell of "What's the source? Konrad, report!"

Then the hydraulic doors opened, and Pops whirled to face them as people rushed into the room. A big crowd of them, their jumpsuits identifying them as colonial staff. There was a stocky, muscular woman in the forefront whom all the others seemed to defer to.

"What the fuck is going on? Are we being nuked?" she yelled. When no one answered, the woman roared "Who sounded the alarm?" with her powerful lungs producing a shout that drowned the klaxons and filled the room. "_Who sounded that motherfucking alarm_?"

The alarm abruptly stilled. The colonists turned to stare at the door to the chief administrator's office in the center rear of the room, the only place from which a Condition One could be cancelled.

"I did."

There was Dameon Aedon, casually strolling out that door. He did an exaggerated double-take at the sight of the crowd of colonists, then a broad smile came over his handsome face and he did his sweeping bow.

"Thank you! Oh thank you for coming out to see us, my friends!" he proclaimed, grandiose and magnanimous. "Thank you for showing us your beautiful faces! Thank you, thank you, _you chickens._"

His last words were suddenly sharp and contemptuous, and his smile turned cold and angry. Many in the crowd flinched.

"Running away like chickens," Dameon spat. "We travel across the galaxy in the middle of a fuel crisis, we risk our lives fighting your enemies, we finally get here to help you, and what do you do? You hide from us!"

"_Hide! From us!_" he roared, aggressively lunging toward the crowd. Everyone flinched this time.

Aedon seemed to take a moment to regain his composure, walking down the line of people and back, glaring. Meanwhile the rest of the mercs, Eve, and the three senior staff were dumbstruck. Even Jack seemed riveted by the lad's dramatic display. O'Hara sent an incredulous look at Pappagallo, who seemed deceptively aloof. But when the younger merc started to step forward with a conciliatory hand raised, Pops quickly put out a hand in front of Harry's chest to stop him, earning an even more incredulous glance.

"But it's a different story when you're in trouble, isn't it," said Dameon to the crowd, his voice calm but forceful. "Your homes get shot up, your property is stolen, your children are threatened. Then you flock to us, don't you."

"Well we're here now," he said, his words steadily growing louder. "We're here to do our job, and we're here to stay."

"And you, you prove to us that _you're worth fighting for_!" he said, his voice now a furious shout. Aedon let a moment of silence pass. Then he said, more calmly. "We can't help you if you don't help us. If you're serious about winning this, then get in here and sit your asses down for the briefing. You want to leave and let us fight alone, there's the door."

With that, Dameon turned his back to them and retreated to the center of the room, passing close by Pops and Harry.

"How'd I do?" the young man whispered, sounding out of breath but excited.

"Not bad, kid," said Pappagallo. He was watching on as the Sanjivan colonists, slowly at first, came fully into the room to take their seats. "Not bad at all."

As Aedon moved by to pull up a chair, Pappagallo found himself turning to share a glance with each of the other mercs. Though he obviously couldn't see through Jack's helmet, the eyes of all the others expressed shades of the same feeling. When his eyes met with Harry's, the hat-sporting pilot held up two hands, crossed at the wrists, with two digits extended on one hand and all five on the other.

"Yep," said the old merc softly, slowly nodding. He had never really considered the young Aedon ready for primetime, but that was no longer the case. "Now we are seven."

Pappagallo stepped forward as the majority of the room filled up. Time to get to work.

"Listen up," the old merc boomed. "I'm Pappagallo. I go by Pops. We don't have a lot of time, so I'll make this short and sweet. In a matter of hours, pirate forces will begin making reprisals on this colony for our incursion. We are going to evacuate all the outer homesteads to the central complex before that happens, and when the pirates come knocking here, we're going to kick their teeth in. Here's how we're going to do it…"

x x x x x

_**Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," central colony complex  
Level 1 South: Main Vehicle Bay, vicinity of aerovehicle docking platform**_

The planning was done. Every available vehicle was being mobilized, every colonist who could fly a stick or hold a gun had been assigned to crew them. The mercenaries had been briefed on Sanjiva's features and Threshold's layout, and everyone knew what they had to do. It was almost time to roll.

Pappagallo watched from the end of the massive vehicle bay as hoverboats and airskiffs engaged their hoverjets and decoupled from their moorings, while the wheelers and crawlers revved up and trundled toward the rising hangar door. He needed to be out there himself, he had his own job to do, but he wanted to see the other mercs off first. They had the most dangerous task: to evacuate the furthest outlying settlements, which meant they would be spending the most time in the areas furthest from safety. If there was to be trouble tonight, his people would be at the forefront of it, and he wanted to see that they were ready.

Pistor first. He had another pilot-technician assigned to be his partner, a leggy blonde woman who towered over his small stature. He also had, Pops suspected, a phobia of the dark.

"They say the nights on Sanjiva are all like this, black as deep space," said Pappagallo to the man, as he was buckling up on the driver's seat of his skiff. "You ready for this?"

"Ready, willing, and able," said Pistor gravely, immediately divining what the old merc was getting at. "A man who can't face his fears is no man at all. Don't worry about me, Pappagallo."

Then there was Jack, who had been paired with the only Sanjivan fearless enough to volunteer, a young man barely into his twenties. Their aerovehicle was an actual passenger mini-bus with a big rivet-gun on a makeshift rear turret, and Jack was sitting in the back row looking like he was nodding off to sleep. However, the great cowled helmet turned to follow Pappagallo as he walked up the platform beside the boat's docking cradle; Jack was not at all asleep.

"This must be new to you, Jack," Pops said to the giant, looking down on him for once. "You'll be taking on a leadership role and a ground combat role together. Are you sure you're up to it?"

"You heard the man – let's move!" his own voice answered from the leper's helmet.

"Jack, look," said Pops, and he squatted down to look at the giant at visor-level. "If the pain from the necrosis gets to be too much, stand down when you get back and don't do another run. I don't want you out there if you're impaired. You still don't want the Doc to give you anything?"

"I feel like a million bucks!" was the response. That sounded good, whatever a 'buck' might be.

"Alright, one more thing. Do you have any devices with you that could help your mission?"

"With this grand technology / I see everything," Jack answered, splicing two speech fragments together. That was good enough for Pops.

"Stick to the plan, try not to intimidate them too much, and make sure everyone understands your orders. You'll do fine," said the old merc, and Jack gave a slight nod in return.

It was reassuring that the big fellow seemed alert and responsive, but Pappagallo still had nagging doubts about sending him out. Even with the young pilot to vouch for Jack, could the colonists be convinced to trust such a strange man?

Next, Hans Brinnlitz, and Pappagallo was outright worried about him. Out of shortage and necessity, he was sending out the sniper unsupervised by any of the other mercs, which was a dangerous gamble. The partner, a tough-looking woman pilot, nodded to Pops as he came up to her skiff; Brinnlitz was beside her in the cockpit, calibrating his long rifle. As soon as the sniper saw Pappagallo's face, he got up and vaulted out of the vehicle to come to his side.

"What's on your mind, Pops?" he said to the old merc. Brinnlitz was likely just saying that as a formality, for the shrewd look in his eyes suggested he already knew, as usual.

"You're going to be out there with clean-living civilians alone in the dark," said Pappagallo, his tone low and intense. "I need to know how bored you're feeling, right now."

"You must be joking," said Brinnlitz with a big smile. "Look at the hustle all around us, the excitement in the air! And that wild space battle – boredom is the last thing on my mind!"

"Besides, I haven't scratched a civvy since… you know when," he said, softly now, the smile fading from his face. "I only play with filth now, and there will be plenty of them soon enough. You can leave me alone with the colonists, Pops. Trust me, I won't harm a hair."

"If you come back with anyone missing…" Pappagallo stopped, left that unsaid. "Alright, I trust you. Bring them home, Hans."

"Every last one, old man," said Brinnlitz, and he jumped back down into the skiff just as its hoverjets flared and it began to rise from its cradle.

That just left Kano's team now. Kano was standing at the open hatch of Pappagallo's own armoured air rover, which had been brought down on the cargo elevators to the vehicle bay. Pops had paired Kano with Aedon, and it felt like a good match; Kano was their best fighter but had the social airs of a shark, while Dameon was the most inexperienced but also highly charismatic. The forceful forewoman Wulcan had been very willingly assigned to them to give credibility, and with the three manning the fastest and most heavily armed flyer in the fleet, they were the team Pops considered his top guns.

"Listen up you lot," the old merc said as he approached. Aedon looked over from the smartgun turret, and Wulcan popped her head out the hatch.

"You're the best of the best, but you've got the hardest job of all," said Pappagallo, firmly. "You're going out into the furthest outskirts of Threshold, the furthest away from any help. You'll have to convince the most independent, stubborn, crotchety colonists of all to abandon their homes, and you're going to get every last one, I don't care how. And the country you're going to, well if there's any pirates about tonight, that's where they'll be. You're Team Alpha, and you're going to be facing the worst of tonight's troubles. You ready?"

"Hell yeah! Bring it on!" Aedon exclaimed. Wulcan gave a short, humourless laugh: "Ha! When something needs to get done around here, I'm the one they come to. I don't fuck about, mister."

"I shall not fail," said Kano, simple and serene as always.

"Kano," said Pappagallo, meeting the merc's eyes and lowering his voice. "If you can, bring a pirate back alive."

"If I can, I will," he replied, then climbed into the rover without another word.

"Good luck, team," Pops called to them before the hatch closed. "Leave no one behind!"

With that concluded, Pappagallo turned and headed for the elevator, where O'Hara was waiting and watching on. He and Harry had their own parts to play.

Pops was to take his gunship to the three community centers inside Threshold's borders, which were miniature colony complexes housing a number of families together. With his ship's large loading bay and a couple of passenger pods, he should be able to evacuate each community center with a single trip. His biggest concern would be organization; a community of dozens of people would take a lot more time and effort to rouse from bed and cajole into his ship then a homestead's single family. And time was of the essence.

O'Hara was their air support. With his lightning-fast interceptor, Harry was tasked with responding to any vehicle or homestead that sent out a distress call, and it wasn't likely that any pirate aerovehicle unit could stand a chance against him. The problem was that of distance; Threshold was built over a vast area of the planet's surface. Even at supersonic speeds, it could take ten minutes or more for O'Hara's _Nomad_ to travel from one quadrant of the colony to another, and a lot could happen in ten minutes. Again, time was of the essence.

"Whatever it was that you said to them, I think it worked," said O'Hara. "They looked right determined afterward. I wouldn't have pegged you for the inspiring speech-giver type, General."

"Just said what needed to be said," he shrugged. They entered the elevator, hit the button for the airfield. "Most of the pieces are in place now, the game's ready to go."

"Only 'most'? Aha, I get it! You mean the speech you've got for me, that's still on the launchpad!" teased Harry.

"Yep," said Pops, unfazed. "That and something else. Something's been bothering me about this pirate outfit, it doesn't add up."

"You mean their whole nighttime operation," said O'Hara, seriously now.

"Yep. Running low-altitude flyers at night is dangerous, even with nightvision. Yet the colonists say they run rampant at night, kidnapping and killing at random. Why the double shifts?"

"Nighttime flying is doubly dangerous with everything inside these deep canyons," the younger merc pointed out. "I wouldn't do it if I had the choice, not with a perfectly good daylight phase every cycle. They've got some advantage we don't know about, or maybe they're on the clock."

"Whatever it is, it means there should be at least one airskiff team out there tonight. And if they get the word out, or they figure out why nobody's calling back from space, there's going to be a lot more. Could be you'll have your hands full out there, Harry. You ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," said Harry, and he cracked a faint smile.

"If you get swamped, just stay cool," advised Pops. "Go to the closest tag, do what you can, go to the next. Don't worry about the ones you're not helping. You can only do the best you can, and sometimes you can't save them all."

"I've done my share of escort missions, Pops," said Harry, a hard look coming to his face. "I know what it's like to lose a lamb. That's not going to happen tonight, not on my watch."

"Yep. That's what I think too."

The two were quiet for a time, just listening to the whoosh of the elevator. Then O'Hara suddenly lifted his head and turned to look at Pops, a dawning awareness in his eyes.

"Heeeey," he said, almost indignantly, but with a broad smile coming on. "Do I look all determined-like now? You just did your inspirational speech on me!"

"You don't look all determined-like any more," said Pops dryly.

"Hey, I've got a little speech for you, now that I think of it," said Harry, and launched into it quickly before Pappagallo could protest. "You're one of the best leaders and tacticians I ever met, but you take too much on yourself. Let others help shoulder the load, and you could carry that much more."

"Sounds more like a fortune cookie," said Pops, even more dryly. "Don't get distracted now."

"You got it. I'm ready, mate."

The door slid open, and the two spacers headed out, O'Hara almost sprinting to his starfighter. Pappagallo could see Director Sagan talking to Eve Owan close by his gunship; the chief administrator herself had chosen to be his partner for the mission, and Eve had insisted she should also come aboard to aid with her medical and technical skills.

"Good news," said Sagan to Pappagallo as he walked up. "The cable system was intact enough to reach about a quarter of the outlying homesteads and one of the community centers, they know we're coming."

"Alright, we go to those first," said the old merc, and the trio ascended the ramp into the gunship. "Miss Owan, how long till daybreak now?"

"Approximately seven hours," she replied.

That wasn't so good. Seven hours would be a long time for a force of weary colonists and mercs, and a painfully short amount of time to evacuate three community centers and dozens of settlements. And the visibility hazard of night flying was the only guarantee of safety the colonists had; once the dark of night was past, there would be nothing to keep the pirates from attacking in force.

Safely buckled into the pilot's seat, Pappagallo hit the hoverjets and listened to the familiar rumble as his gunship lifted off. He turned the ship to face the rising hangar doors, revealing the utter blackness of Sanjivan night beyond, and an old thrill of adrenaline ran through him.

It was time to roll. The mission had begun, and the clock was ticking.

x x x x x

_Author's notes:_

_Aargh! Still not in the thick of things yet! Just a little more to go, I promise! The next chapter will be all about the nocturnal adventures of Pops and his crew, and we all know who mostly comes out at night. Mostly._

_By the by, I've included a glossary of some of the acronyms I like to use. It's just to show that they actually stand for something and I'm not just pulling them out of thin air. :)_

_EDIT: One more thing. You might remember Eve reporting there were "eight available aerovehicles" back in chapter 5, and you're now wondering where all the machines in the hangar bay came from. Simply put, only a few of those machines were true aerovehicles capable of atmospheric flight. The rest were hoverboats, which rely on hoverjets and have no flight propulsion, and common wheeled vehicles. Eve was just omitting the craft that stood no chance of outrunning or outfighting a pirate airskiff._

_- SA_

x x x x x

_CAP – Combat Aerospace Patrol. Cruising over a specific area in search of enemy activity.  
CTAC – Cryogenic Transport And Containment. All-purpose space crate.  
ECM – Electronic Counter Measures. Sort of like radio jamming, but for weapon systems.  
ICC – Interplanetary Commerce Commission. Organization that encompasses civilized space.  
ISS – Independent Star Ship. Any ship not owned by a corporation or government.  
MAC – Magnetic Accelerator Cannon. Space artillery, also called "coilguns" or "railguns".  
PPC – Plasma Projection Cannon. A short-ranged ship-to-ship directed energy weapon.  
PIG – Plasma Infantry Gun. The big freakin' cannon atop the troop carrier vehicle in Aliens.  
USAAC – United States Allied Aerospace Command. The space navy of the ICC.  
USCMC – United States Colonial Marine Corps. The elite soldiers of the ICC.  
USCSS – United States Commercial Star Ship. A civilian merchant vessel._


	8. Racing the Night

CHAPTER 8: RACING THE NIGHT

_**Omega Cygni star system a.k.a. "Naraka" in the Cygnus Star Region  
****Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," Keller-Bravo canyon at 1 km. from central colony complex  
****USAAC Combat Airscout: XBGT02 Pursuit Special, now leaving central community district**_

Turbojets growling, the military air rover coasted down the darkened Keller Canyon, just a few meters above the carpet of giant ferns covering the canyon's wide floor, directly in the middle between the miles-high rock walls. Several six-wheeled crawlers followed along below, their headlamps shining out over the bright green vegetation, and a second aerovehicle, a civilian airskiff, kept pace beside.

Lights from wall platforms and habitats passed by on either side for a time, then the small fleet left the central district behind and the walls were bare and dark. The crawlers were left behind, their headlamps fading into the black as the flyers accelerated away. And then the civilian skiff banked into the branching Dylan Canyon and went its own way, and with its own running lights turned off, the air rover was left alone and in utter darkness.

In seven hours, the sun would be up. A round trip to the community outskirts could take up to two hours, with another 30 to 60 minutes to reach and evacuate at least two homesteads. Three runs, that was about the most that could be done before the sun rose and negated the cover of darkness. One could only hope that it would be enough for all the colonists in the outer reaches.

Within the rover, Nikola Kano was piloting while Mining Foreman Brigid Wulcan had the copilot's seat, and Dameon Aedon was in the smartgun cupola, his gunner's chair lowered into the well so the roof hatch could be closed.

"That's it then, we're out of central," Wulcan was saying. She looked over to the mercenary in the pilot's chair beside her, frowning. "This is too fucking fast, mister. This fancy nightvision is good, sure, but what's the point if you're being reckless?"

Kano didn't reply, in fact didn't seem to be aware of her.

"Don't worry, he knows what he's doing," said Aedon, acting nonchalant and unconcerned to hide his own nervousness. "Mercs like him and me, we know how to handle a stick. We'll be fine."

Wulcan sighed. It was going to be a long night.

Time passed, and tension grew, or at least it did for two of the team. All was dark but for the instrument lights and the green-screen nightvision view of the canyon ahead, and the only sound was the muted howl of the turbojets.

"Kano. Look," said Wulcan eventually, succumbing to curiousity. "Why'd you agree to help us? What's your story?"

There was no reply then, either.

"He's the strong, silent type," said Aedon, grinning.

"Okay, how about you?" Wulcan turned to the young man. "Owan and Sagan say you're alright and I'll go with that, but you have to know you're the spitting image of the bastard who leads the pirates. You talk like him too, and you got his name. What's the deal, you related?"

Dameon chuckled a short humourless laugh. "Technically, I'm the bastard, not he who leads the pirates. Usires Aedon is my father, and I deeply apologize for that."

"Yeah?" said Wulcan, fighting off a wave of hostility. "He's your old man, huh? Why the fuck are you on our side then? Some kinda family feud?"

"You could say that," Dameon said, his voice becoming cold.

"Well? What's your story then?" Wulcan pressed.

Aedon didn't answer for a moment, seeming to grapple with himself. Then he shrugged.

"Oh, my dear father forced himself on my mother, as he no doubt has done to many women," he said, the nonchalance in his voice barely hiding suppressed anger. "He ripped her skin, he broke her bones, and he left her with a bellyful of his get. No living victim could be more ill-used than my poor mum was. That she raised me with love and forgiveness is a testament to the human spirit I cannot aspire to."

"Lady, I promise you this," he said, almost a hiss. "If you were to deliver dear Daddy to me right this instant, I wouldn't ask if he recognized me or remembered my mother or some other trite bullshit. I would put a bullet in his head and another in his black heart, and I'd smile while I did it. Does that answer your questions?"

Wulcan stared. Then she said: "Looking for revenge for your own conception, that's a new one on me."

"I do hope it amuses you," said Aedon, some of the old devil-may-care coming back to his voice.

"Yeah, well your pa took my husband and my three boys from me, so I'm not feeling so fucking amused," said Wulcan, a murderous edge coming to her voice. "All I wanted to do was run my mine and raise my boys. Now all I want is to find your pappy and…"

She paused a second. Then, almost contemplatively: "And put a bullet in his fucking heart. Huh."

"We have something in common, dear lady," Dameon smiled. "Shall we call a truce till our mutual foe is felled?"

"Sure. Deal," said Wulcan. She'd be watching this one like a hawk one way or the other, so what the hell, why not. And once the first Aedon was done, she could decide whether to send the second to join him.

"An eye for an eye, and soon the whole world is blind," Kano said softly.

"What? What did you say?" said the other two in surprise. But the veteran merc said nothing more.

Half an hour passed in relative silence, and tension gradually mounted. A surge of fearful anticipation went through Aedon and Wulcan when they passed the last glowing nav marker and into the unbroken dark of the canyon. This was it, the Wild West. They were past the border now, outside of the colonial cable-comm network, and in pirate territory.

They turned several times, going into different canyons as they met or branched off from the Keller trench. Then they came to the first of the homesteads they were to evacuate.

Here, the chaotic greenery on the floor of the canyon was supplanted by a small farm, orderly rows of water plants fenced off into squares, monitored by various scientific instruments. The homestead itself looked much like any other, a large modern house built on the floor of a huge half-globe cut from the rock wall. The lights were on in the windows, and nothing appeared damaged or out of order.

Kano did a slow pass by the homestead, and predictably, the lights went out inside. Retracting the rover's weapons, he came about and brought the craft to a landing in front of the house.

"This is our cue. Let's go get 'em," said Aedon to Wulcan, unbuckling his harness. "But whatever you do, don't let any of them talk to Kano or he'll scare them back into the house!" He got a brief smile from Wulcan. Kano, as might be expected, remained impassive.

"Hey in the house! Devon, you in there? It's Wulcan," the foreman bellowed at the building as she and Aedon came close. "No pirates, just us. Open the door, we need to talk!"

Kano watched as the house lights came back on and the front door opened, and a nervous-looking woman grabbed Wulcan's arm and ushered her into the house. Aedon followed her in. Now alone, Kano set all cameras and displays to give him a 360-degree view around the rover and took up his watch, implacable discipline keeping him from relaxing in this moment of false security.

Aedon and Wulcan were in there a long time. Kano kept the engines idling and kept watch, and there were no disturbances. The night was cool, still, and eerie. Through the open hatch he heard voices raised in argument several times from within the house, and he began to grow impatient as the team's time inside approached half an hour.

Finally, something started happening. The front door opened, and Aedon came out leading a procession of women and children. Kano watched on with some surprise as more and more people came out, eleven altogether, before Wulcan came bringing up the rear. That would fill the rover to just one short of capacity.

Kano continued to keep watch while his companions secured the colonists and their meagre possessions in the rover's rear bay. Now was an especially important time to be alert, what with the distracting bustle causing noise that could alert a nearby enemy.

"Hey mister," said a small voice by the side of his chair.

Kano did not turn his head from the displays; he could see in his peripheral vision that a child had made his way into the pilot's compartment from the rear bay. He did not reply.

"Are you a bad man, mister?" said the little boy. "Mummy says you're not, but you look scary. Are you a bad man?"

Something about the child's boldness gave the merc pause. He had been like that once. When he was very young, Nik and several other children had been kidnapped, ferried across a desert plain by hoverbarge. Something had forced the barge down, then a man came inside and effortlessly shot four of the five kidnappers before they could mount any effective defense. The fifth had grabbed one of the children and used her as a shield with a gun to her small head, so the man shot the criminal between the eyes and that was that.

"Are you a bad man?" Nik had asked the man, who eventually smiled a little smile and said: "Depends on who asks."

"Are you the best fighter in the galaxy?" Nik had asked. The man said, without ego: "Yes."

"Can I be like you when I grow up?" Nik had asked. And the man said: "Practice until you find the empty calm place inside you, and maybe you will." And then he left, and Kano had never seen him again.

"Mister, are you a bad man?"

Kano smiled a little smile and said to the boy beside him: "Depends on who asks."

Then a harried woman, presumably the mother, came through the hatch and grabbed the child. Kano listened to them retreat, the boy protesting as they did so, and didn't look back.

Aedon soon came in to the pilot's compartment and shut both the hatch to the rear bay and the side hatch.

"Wulcan's staying in the bay with the colonists," he reported, and Kano nodded in approval.

"Quite a large family," the veteran noted.

"Two families," Dameon corrected him. "The neighbours' house got shot up a week ago and they came to camp out here."

"Fortunate for us. A full load in one stop, and we're running early."

"Good stuff," the young man grinned. "Let's get this show on the road."

As he lifted off, Kano touched his wire headset to radio out. The mercs were using a very low band together with encrypted transmissions, making it unlikely that their communications would be intercepted, but they were taking no chances and keeping radio silence as much as possible.

"All units, Kano. First loadout secured, returning to base. No incidents."

There were five hours and twenty minutes left till daybreak.

x x x x x

_**Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," Dylan-Bravo canyon at 60 km. inside community border  
****Company personnel aerovehicle: Registry 7A36-OCS1, en route to community outskirts at high speed**_

"You're from one of the Tellurian stations, aren't you?"

Amon Pistor raised an eyebrow, though his partner wouldn't see it through his nightvision eyepiece. He kept their speeding airskiff on course, mindful of the high speed he was maintaining, and turned his attention to her.

"You're pretty sharp."

"Thought so," Gerhardt smiled. "I saw the wing tattoo on your wrist, I had a military friend from the Tellurians with a tattoo just like it. It also made sense with what your boss said about dark nights and you talking about facing your fears."

Pistor flicked his eyes away from the windscreen a moment to regard his partner. Gerhardt was certainly easy on the eyeballs, statuesque, blonde, tall, curvy. Having spent the better part of a decade in a place with no women to speak of, a man of lesser discipline would have had a hard time keeping focused with her around. Seemed there was a quick mind behind that pretty face as well. Though just at the moment, he might have preferred a ditzy airhead instead.

"You were on one of the stations that got attacked, weren't you," she said, coming straight to the point. "That's why you have trouble with darkness. My friend was like that too, he didn't like the dark. I don't mean to pry, I'll leave it alone if you don't want to talk about it. But I want to help."

The merc's hand gripped the flight stick a little tighter. It all came back for a moment, the explosions in the bio labs, the lights going out as main power was crippled, people screaming in the dark as the gene-engineered dogs hunted the halls, him as a child crawling blindly into a cupboard and trying to stifle his crying as the growls came inexorably closer.

Then it was gone, and he was in control again. He was a grown man now, with guns, flares and nightvision, and it was other men who feared him when he came stalking in the night.

"It's nothing," Pistor said, unemotional in tone, then added: "The only help I need is for you to let me do my job."

"Affirmative, will do," Gerhardt replied, sounding sheepish. After a while, she spoke up again: "I went somewhere I shouldn't have, I'm..."

"Forget it," he said. It didn't matter.

They reached the halfway point, then the colony border, and with a rush of adrenaline and fear, they flew into the dark. They were in no-man's-land now, and the job was just starting.

After several twists and turns they reached the first homestead to be evacuated. The place might have looked fairly idyllic in the daytime, with terraced rows of what looked like rice paddies leading down from the front of the house into a lush forest of faintly phosphorescent giant mushrooms.

The lights went out as they approached, and Pistor cautiously landed the airskiff at the side entrance of the house.

"Go in and talk them out, I'll keep watch," said Pistor as the vehicle came to rest, and Gerhardt nodded and jumped out.

"Hey in there! Mrs. Feingold? It's Gina Gerhardt from central," the colonist called out as she approached the door. "It's safe, we're alone! I just want to talk, can I come in?"

A lady, smiling in relief, soon came out and ushered Gerhardt in. Pistor settled back and took up watch, shivering a little as a chill wind blew through the canyon.

The creepy moan of the wind had him more on edge then he should be, maybe the darkness was getting to him despite the nightvision. The bare rock of the canyons soaked up sunlight during the daytime and let it out as heavy infra-red during the night, giving blazing-bright clear images on any NV device. He could see almost as far with his eyepiece as he would naturally during the day, there was no cause for him to be so keyed up.

Thankfully, Pistor didn't have long to wait. The lights went out and the front door opened, and a flashlight-wielding Gerhardt came out leading a woman, a young man, and two children. The family was moving quickly and carrying few possessions, they seemed eager to get out of here.

As Gerhardt started assisting people into the skiff, the leading woman came up behind Pistor's seat and said a polite "Good morning, sir."

"I'm Lisa Feingold. Are you one of the contractors?" she asked. He nodded, and she proceeded to ask a number of silly questions, such as 'can you fly in the dark,' and 'can you really use a gun,' and 'have you been in a battle before'. Pistor silently nodded each time, keeping watch all the while.

"Sir, I have a request, if you'll hear it," Feingold said suddenly. Pistor raised an eyebrow as she continued: "My friend Rosa Koski lives fairly close to here with her three kids. She has diabetes and I don't know when was the last time she had any insulin from central. Can we pick her up next?"

"The Koski homestead? We were going there anyway," said Pistor, drawing a sigh of relief from the woman. Then he asked: "Mrs. Feingold, why did you agree to come with us so quickly? I was under the impression that you and your neighbours were staying out here because you didn't want to leave."

"If it was just the pirates then yeah, we wouldn't be leaving. We've been harassed by that lot before. It's something else."

"Something else? Like what?"

"I don't know," she said, starting to go rather pale. "But we hear them at night sometimes, moving around. And when it's a bad night, when they're moving around a lot, somebody's family disappears. I don't know if it's a different team of pirates or a gang of slavers or the fucking boogeyman, I just want my family out of here."

Pistor just nodded, staring at her with a troubled frown on his face. Frankly, he found Feingold's story unbelievable, and he wondered at her state of mind. It sounded like something from a paranoid schizophrenic or maybe a practical joker, but he couldn't simply dismiss her out of hand either.

When all the colonists and their modest possessions were loaded and secured, Gerhardt hopped into her seat beside him and he lifted off.

"Nice work," he said, and she answered: "Wasn't anything I did. They wanted out."

"Yes, about that," said Pistor. "Do me a favor and keep an eye on Feingold. She might be a few rounds short of a full clip. I don't want her making trouble."

Gerhardt gave him a surprised look, but didn't argue.

Thirty minutes later, Pistor was pulling up to a homestead almost identical to the one he had just left. But this time, the lights were already out before they approached. He did a slow pass about the house, then set the skiff down. Gerhardt came out and called to the Koskis, going right up to the door. But no one presented themselves or turned on any lights, and she discovered the door unlocked when she tried the knob. Pistor began to get a feeling that something wasn't right.

"Wait! Gerhardt, come back here," the merc radioed to her as she made to enter the house. She obeyed, returning to the skiff, and he clambered out to meet her.

"Get in the skiff and take the stick," Pistor instructed her. "I'll check the house myself. If you lose radio contact with me for more than ten minutes, take off and get these people to safety. Understood?"

"What? Why?" Gerhardt asked, staring at him. "Shouldn't we be going in there together, partner?"

"We don't want to leave these people stranded if there's an ambush waiting in there," said Pistor. "And besides, I work better alone."

Without waiting for her to argue further, he moved off at a jog. He readied his weapons: besides his sidearm, he had brought a carbine submachinegun on a shoulder strap, a handy low-recoil speedshooter that could be wielded with one hand. Holding a finger-sized flashbang grenade in his off-hand, he opened the side door with forefinger and thumb and advanced into the house.

At first, the house seemed pristine. The mini-foyer showed no sign of disturbance, neither did the side hall, an observatory/sitting room, a rec room, or the kitchen. The light switches did not respond; main power was out. He cleared the rooms one by one, methodically and efficiently, memorizing the layout as he went.

The dining room held the first sign of violence; tables and stands shattered, chairs overturned or broken. There was buckshot scarring from a scattergun, someone had tried to fight back.

Pistor found the shotgun in the next room over, lying in two pieces behind the makeshift barricade of an overturned sofa in the corner. He paused, staring at the antique weapon; it was snapped in two at the breech. It was a sturdy piece of solid wood and iron, it would have taken incredible strength to break it like that.

The second half of the house presented in much the same vein: overturned and broken furniture, blunt impact damage on the walls and fixtures, smashed doors, no blood or bodies or survivors. He made his way upstairs, clearing labs and bedrooms and miscellaneous rooms, finding nothing except scattered signs of violence matching what he had already seen.

Pistor was at a loss to explain any of it. The family had fought frenziedly against armoured kidnappers wielding batons and tranqs, and eventually succumbed without any bloodletting on either side? This wasn't like any battle he had seen before.

He radioed Gerhardt with a status update, then he went downstairs and was about to proceed into the basement when he stopped with his foot on the first step. Something was wrong.

Pistor couldn't quite make it out, but there was something at the edge of his hearing, a deep humming, droning sound. He felt slightly dizzy, there were intermittent black spots in his vision, and the green imaging of his eyepiece seemed to be slowly losing its colour and fading to black and white. The air seemed thick; there was some surreal quality to everything he was sensing, something nightmarish.

He shook his head vigorously to clear his vision and orient himself, then against his instincts he continued down the stairs, weapons at the ready and all senses straining with alertness. There was a rec room, a storage room and a lab in the basement, and he relentlessly cleared every one. Then he found the utility room with heating and power fixtures. The lever to the main power box had been pulled down to the off position and then ripped out, again suggesting great physical strength. The enemy had been here too.

Pistor then found another set of stairs going down to a sub-basement. That was where he had to stop. He realized that he was panting, and deathly afraid. The changes to his vision had intensified, and worse, something had started to go wrong with his nightvision eyepiece, causing it to flicker intermittently and send lines of static rolling down the display. The droning sound was distinct and unearthly, and the dreamlike quality to the air made it feel almost as though he was swimming through deep water. What was wrong with him?

The merc shook his head, then shook it again and looked down the stairs. It seemed to be an unassuming storage space down there, but he was seized with a premonition that if he went down there, he wouldn't come back. His instincts were screaming at him. He just couldn't go down there, down into the deepest dark with failing NV.

"Anybody down there? Hello, friendlies up here!" he called down the stairs. He lit a flare and tossed it down the steps, then set himself with his gun ready. No one, friend or foe, came up the stairs. Pistor backed away and moved toward the hall with the staircase up, and it took everything he had not to break into a run. The peculiar disorientation and nightvision malfunctions quickly vanished as he got to the main floor and then outside, but he didn't stop until he had vaulted into the airskiff proper.

"What happened? What's wrong?" asked Gerhardt, concerned to see him breathless, pale and sweating. Pistor took a deep breath and calmed himself.

"Nothing's wrong. There were no colonists nor pirates in there, so there's nothing of interest to us," he said firmly. "Let's head to the next household, we're done wasting time."

"All units, Pistor," the merc radioed out, then he realized he didn't know what to say. What would he warn his colleagues against, scary feelings and nightvision flickering in empty houses? Now that he was out, it felt ridiculous that he had been so afraid in the first place.

"Something strange happening out here. If any of your homesteads turn up empty, proceed with caution," he chose to say.

"Oh, Rosa," said Feingold in the back, and she began to weep softly. "Oh God. They got you too."

Four hours, forty minutes left till daybreak.

x x x x x

_**Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," Jillian-Alpha canyon at 25 km. outside community border  
****Company personnel aerovehicle: Registry 7A88-OCS1, en route to Rostov homestead at high speed**_

"If any homesteads turn up empty…? What the blue bandersnatch is he talking about?" Hans Brinnlitz wondered aloud. His partner, the tough-looking young machine operator Olga, answered: "He's talking about the kidnappings. The pirates have been taking a lot of families wholesale, just the empty houses are left behind."

"But that suggests there would be nothing of further interest in the abandoned houses. Why the need to be cautious around them?" Brinnlitz mused.

"We could call him and ask," Olga suggested as she worked the flight stick, maneuvering their skiff to keep on course in the dark.

"Nah. Not worth breaking radio silence for," the sniper said dismissively, and he tightened his gloves.

"So… what happened after the shootout?" Olga asked.

"Yeah, what happened?" said the teenaged boy behind Brinnlitz's seat, and his mother leaned a little closer so she could hear too.

"Oh, the story, of course," Brinnlitz smiled, and continued: "Well, the silkrunner gang never figured out that I was working both sides, but the wine smugglers were getting suspicious at all the losses. So, they brought in another freelancer, a gunbunny who called himself 'Uno'. I knew Uno, and I knew I was in trouble then, because Uno had both a sharp mind and a wicked fast draw…"

Brinnlitz couldn't stop smiling as he recounted his tale. It was finely perfumed bullshit, and he had them eating out of his hand. The next time they touched down, it would be the easiest thing in the world to bring one of them to a nice private spot, and then…

And then nothing. There would be no playing with the colonists, he had already made his promise. He briefly considered playing the game anyway, doing the hunting and coaxing and just stopping before the finish. But such interrupted intercourse would not do; there would be too much temptation to bring out the knives, and before he knew it his promise would be broken. Best to abandon this line of thinking entirely.

Ah, there was the Rostov homestead. Brinnlitz ceased his storytelling.

"Terribly sorry," he said to his audience. "It's time to get back to work."

As the airskiff neared the house, Brinnlitz saw through his nightvision that a fight had happened here. The house was full of bullet holes, windows shattered, the front door repaired from being smashed in.

"Those look like old wounds," the sniper murmured. "This happened at least two days ago."

"Should I stop?" asked Olga.

"Yes," acknowledged Brinnlitz. "Somebody repaired the front door and some of the windows. That somebody was probably the Rostovs."

Still, something didn't seem right to him. Brinnlitz had razor-sharp senses and a finely tuned intuition, and his instincts were alerting him that all was not as it seemed.

"Stay here, I'll go in this time," he said to Olga, and then to the six colonists and children already collected in the back, he said: "Everyone, please keep your heads down and keep quiet. I'll be right back."

The merc climbed out of the skiff, then circled the damaged house. He looked through the windows he passed and listened for the slightest sound on the way. When he reached the patched-up front door, he called out loudly: "Hello, Mrs. Rostov? My name is Hans Brinnlitz and I'm not a pirate! We're here to evacuate you! I'll put down my weapons if you want. Hello?"

No response was forthcoming, and he heard nothing from within the house. After listening a while, he checked the door handle. The front door was locked, and Brinnlitz gave it an amused glance before putting his hand through one of the holes to open the inside latch. The door swung open; he slung his rifle and took out his sidearm, and moved inside.

His measured steps not making a sound on the floor, Brinnlitz prowled through the house. He didn't need to go far to see that the Rostovs were gone and not by choice: furniture overturned, doors smashed, hiding places torn open. Yet no bodies, no blood. Brinnlitz was hardly an expert on parenthood, but he would have expected parents with their children threatened to fight and claw down to their fingernails. This was decidedly strange, and he was all too aware of Pistor's warning now.

At this point his mission should be to search for survivors, but he sensed that this was all he would find; there would be no leftovers from such a thorough search-and-seizure. The Rostovs had survived the first attack from outside but succumbed to the second. That was all that mattered, he didn't care to play detective. He was done here.

But then his foot caught on something as he began to head out. Something sticky under his boot, clinging as he raised his foot, like glue. But when he went up on one leg and looked at his boot to see what it was, he saw only a faint blotch. Puzzled at this invisible glue, Brinnlitz flicked on the flashlight attachment on his pistol, then touched both of his filament eyepieces to retract them up into his wire headset. Then he took a look with his natural vision.

The stickiness was from a runnel of milky goo, and when his flashlight followed it to its source he saw… The merc was stunned. He saw a pale tube going up the wall to a grotesque patch of clustered root-like structures covering part of the roof and the wall over the nearby entrance to the basement stairs. He rechecked an eyepiece and confirmed that none of the stuff showed up on nightvision at all, save for shadowy blotches that looked much like the usual distortion from imperfect infra-red imaging.

What was this all about? It seemed as though the infestation was spreading across the surface of the wall like mildew, and it was thickest around the door downstairs, which suggested its origin. He moved to the basement door and opened it up, but just as he put his foot inside he froze. His sharp senses were registering a disturbance, a smattering of black spots and colour loss in his vision, a peculiar hum in his ears, a feeling of fluid thickness in the air, a cognitive sense of unrealness, of… fear.

Hans Brinnlitz broke into a wide smile. He did not experience fear as other men did. Fear was a special thing to him, a delicacy to be slowly savoured, for there was very, very little that could frighten a creature such as he. There was something here that was scaring him, putting a little fire in the blood and excitement in the air, and it certainly wasn't a snarl of mutated vines. Now what could it be?

He stepped into the stairwell, silently making his way downward. It was pointless to be stealthy now; he needed his flashlight to see, which would be a dead giveaway to anyone lying in wait. But old habits died hard.

The roof and patches of the walls were similarly befouled, but it was difficult to tell the origin now; the stuff seemed to be popping up everywhere, randomly. He searched the basement methodically, room by room. He only found more infestation, until he reached a spot where the outer wall was unfinished and raw rock was revealed.

There was a pod here, knee high and leathery, obviously some sort of egg or cocoon with a cross-shaped mouth on top. It was set in a nest of the roots, which crawled all over the floor from the pod. The rock wall behind the pod was where the infestation was worst, and to Brinnlitz's eyes, there seemed to be ingrained shapes, bones, figures, symbols, rows of rusty phallic protrusions from petrified organs, all woven fluidly into an organic tapestry. It was madness. It was beautiful.

"Oh dearie-dear, what have we here," Brinnlitz whispered. He crouched on the spot some ten meters away, pistol extended, and gazed at the pod. He stared at it a long while, feeling it out with his sight and his instincts, at one point closing his eyes and just sensing it with his mind's eye.

"A kindred spirit, are we?" he eventually whispered. "Yes, you're lying in wait, a lion crouching in the tall grass. You want me to come and see you up close, and then you'll play with me, won't you. Ah, but I know you. My fellow player, you think I would be so easy? A predator knows his own kind, my little friend. And I know you."

Brinnlitz opened fire, rapidly emptying the clip. His gun was an elegantly vicious sabot pistol with armour-piercing explosive rounds, and the power of the weapon gouged fist-sized holes into the fleshy pod. Copious fluid gushed out and hissed on the floor, sending up plumes of smoke. The top of the pod peeled open, perhaps a last resort attempt to evacuate the contents, but only spouts of ichor came out before the eviscerated egg sagged into its nest.

The sniper stood up, and tsk-tsked. "You lose, my friend," he said sadly.

Then his headset started playing a garbled transmission, and he managed to make out the voice of his partner Olga over the static. Doubtless she was concerned over the sound of weapons fire. But whatever was the matter with the headset?

Tapping the headset repeatedly to try to clear it up, Brinnlitz cautiously made his way out of the basement. There were no other incidents on the way. The feelings of disorientation and fear passed completely once he was back on the main floor, and his radio chose that moment to clear up as well, leaving him wondering if there was a correlation. He left the house and got back to the skiff, assuring Olga and the evacuees that all was well, though the Rostovs were nowhere to be found.

"All units, this is Brinnlitz," he radioed out as the airskiff began to take off. "I've found a biological infestation in the Rostov homestead. It does not show up on nightvision, and its proximity seemed to make me mildly ill. I think it's potentially harmful and may be present in other households, be careful if you encounter it."

A flurry of questions erupted from his colleagues, as was expected. Brinnlitz answered what he could, but did not tell of the pod. That would be his little secret. He didn't want to ruin the surprise should someone else find one of their own, after all. Everyone should have their chance to play.

Four hours, fifteen minutes left till daybreak.

x x x x x

_**Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," Murphy-Delta canyon at 43 km. outside community border  
****Company personnel aerovehicle: Registry 3B56-OCS1, approaching Cherenkov homestead**_

The scientist some knew as 'Jack' leaned close to the control console of the dirtling vehicle, registering and recording every word in detail.

"It could be benign," the O'Hara one was saying over the communicator. "Just a nasty weed that would normally get weeded out by the homeowners but spreads all over when they're gone."

"It changes nothing," the Pops leader said. "It doesn't affect us directly and doesn't impact the mission. It might be important in the long term but we're on the clock people. Avoid it if you find it and proceed with the evacuation, understood?"

Several of the others answered in the affirmative, acknowledging the Pops' leadership. The scientist leaned back and let out a slow hiss of frustration. The 'infestation' could be the spoor of the Unleashed, the first potential sign of a Forerunner presence on this planet. And because of this task that she was forced to do under the dirtling command hierarchy, she could not go anywhere near it.

She was trapped. The objectives of her own mission laid elsewhere, but she didn't want to jeopardize the valuable ranking she had achieved in the dirtling system. She had worked too hard to earn the creatures' trust to just throw it away on a questionable source of data.

"Jack? You're doing that hissing thing again," her partner, the young Shane dirtling, spoke up. "What's up with that? You're creeping me out, man."

The scientist hurriedly ran through her cache of responses with her data sifting tool. In her visor display, streams of symbols ran down on either side of the Shane's bright thermal image. Making her choice, she extended two mandibles to her oral array and made several swift keypresses.

"Here it is. Gas leak," came forth from her vocoder.

"Aww Jack! Why didn't you let that go before we got back in the skiff?" the Shane brayed, fanning the air in front of his face. The scientist stared at him, taking note of the incident. Her idea of blaming a suit leak had not gone as expected, though the outcome was satisfactory enough. She had never had opportunity to observe immature or female dirtlings before; she had to continue gathering data, even if it wasn't from the species she wanted to pursue.

Moments later, several bright specks appeared in the dark landscape of her thermographic vision, out in the distance in front of the vehicle. The scientist looked through the vehicle's plexiglass front-shield and magnified the image, and she observed the bipedal shapes of five dirtlings, three large and two small. Not the ones she was supposed to kill; the aggressor dirtlings wouldn't have immature ones with them. This was the next habitat to be evacuated.

The scientist and her companion had already acquired one habitat's worth of settlers. It had taken some time, as the habitat leader was unwilling to trust a youngster and a clawed giant to be their caretakers. But they had managed it, and would do so again.

"What?" asked the Shane when she pointed, then after a moment: "Oh, the next homestead! Man, your nightvision sure is better than mine!"

They reached the domicile and landed. The scientist and her companion exited, approached the habitat building. The Shane called out to the inhabitants, and as soon as the door started to open, the scientist flopped to the ground in an undignified sprawl, making sure to throw out her limbs in all directions to appear as pathetic as possible.

"Oh! What's the matter with your friend?" asked the dirtling female in the doorway. The sympathy tones in her voice was evident; the scientist's ploy worked as well this time as it had the last.

"He has some kind of arthritis, he falls down a lot," the Shane explained, smiling, as he helped the scientist lurch back to her feet. He had doubtless figured it out by now. "He'll be okay, just give him a second."

"No, it is okay," the scientist broadcast in the Owan's voice, then: "You're going in / I'll stand guard, sir!"

"That means he'll watch for trouble while we talk together," said the Shane. "Can I come inside? Our voices might carry and attract the bad guys if we talk out here." That last was especially true if the habitat leader should become agitated and start shouting, as had happened on their first foray.

The scientist shuffled back to the aerovehicle and reassured her passengers that all was well, then she moved to the edge of the flat plinth of rock before the house and squatted down to take watch.

She thought about the transmission from the Brinnlitz dirtling: he had mentioned the foreign structures did not appear in his nightvision. As she understood it, dirtling nightvision technology was a combination of low-light intensification and infra-red sensitivity. The inference was obvious: the Unleashed were famously invisible to the infra-red spectrum, for reasons her people still could not fathom.

The scientist's visor possessed a vision mode in an electromagnetic spectrum that the Unleashed did appear in, however. On a whim, she switched vision modes to that spectrum now. Her visor displayed an image view where everything was snowy white with glimmering black lines denoting shapes and objects. The Unleashed and their corruption were impervious to this type of light, appearing as solid black objects in this mode, which to the scientist's natural vision was just as sharp and plain as bright colours on black.

She looked around, seeing nothing of interest. Then some instinct pulled her gaze upward and behind her. The scientist jumped to her feet, letting out a low growl of excitement. There was a sinister pattern of black marks in the sheer rock face above the dirtling habitat, delineating what looked to be a shallow cave. What chance find was this?

The scientist sprinted toward the side of the habitat, unconcerned about being seen in the dark. Without pausing, she launched herself into the air in a tremendous jump, landing on a ledge halfway up the side of the house. She jumped again, this time landing on the roof. Then she stopped a moment, crouching to let her legs flex and build up strength, and jumped some seven meters straight upward and right into the mouth of the small cave.

Fear struck her suddenly, hard, like something clawing at her gut. The cave was a featureless pocket of rock, but just under the surface, the macabre skein of Forerunner construction glowed black before her eyes. It was like a giant, deformed skull beneath the rock face, and she was squatting right in the mouthparts, facing the descending tunnel of the throat.

Taken aback, the scientist closed her eyes and waited till her feelings calmed. This was undeniably a Forerunner artifact, the largest she had ever come into contact with, and she hadn't been prepared for the psychic impact it would have on her. The fear eventually receded, but her excitement remained. This was the reason why she had come to this planet. Even now, she had just made an enormously valuable discovery: some (perhaps all) of the works of the Forerunners appeared in the same visor mode as did the Unleashed.

What was this skull thing? What was its purpose? Had it once been alive, or just made to look like it? The scientist began taking readings and recordings, and she dug into the rock with her wrist-knives until she had broken off a piece of the subterranean structure to study. Several times as she was working, she had to pause to calm herself, her excitement and fear warring to destroy her presence of mind.

She found herself staring at the bottom of the cave, the "throat" of the giant skull. Her visor showed the Forerunner structures continuing deeper under the rock, as deep as her vision could penetrate. It seemed almost like a terminus at the end of a passage, a place to receive things and send them in or out. Was this once a part of a travel network? A cargo transportation device? Or perhaps, a weapon?

"Jack? Hey Jack, where are you?"

The scientist snarled in frustration. Already, her time was up. She swiftly prepared a sensor beacon and placed the tiny silver disc on the floor of the cave. This would guide her ship back to the cave, and record all that happened until then. For now, that would have to suffice.

She turned, and hopped back down to the roof of the dirtling habitat. She could see the Shane one below, looking for her on one side of the habitat, and she jumped down on the other side to avoid being seen. It was time to take up the pretense of being a crippled dirtling hunter again.

"There you are!" the Shane cried when he saw her, moving over to her as she lurched forward. "Jack, we got problems man. The Cherenkovs ain't coming, I can't budge 'em. And Pops just radioed about the time, we're taking too long on this run. If you got any ideas, I'd sure appreciate…"

He trailed off as the scientist lurched on past him, toward the main entrance of the habitat. He had noticed the small pronged device raising up from her left shoulder pad.

"Look, I'm sorry," said the female dirtling in the doorway, as the scientist neared. "But we've waited it out this long already, we can…"

The impact of the scientist's plasma bolt threw the dirtling's convulsing body back into the habitat in a shower of blue sparks. Her plasma caster immediately cast again on the old male just inside the doorway, the one armed with the pellet-sprayer weapon, and took him down before he could raise the weapon.

"Jack, _no_!" the Shane screamed. The scientist ignored him and continued into the house, implacable. Her thermographic vision pinpointed exactly where the other three dirtlings were. An adult female and a small female were in the next room, and two casts dropped them before they could flee. The last, a small fleet-footed male, was rushing away through a side hall, and one final penetrating shot through the flimsy material of the wall felled him in his tracks.

"_You_ _bastard_," the Shane snarled. Through her thermal vision, the scientist could see her young partner crouching by the door, his pistol raised and tracking her.

"Set phasers to stun," the scientist hastily broadcast. She had previously configured her plasma caster to deliver a harmless but incapacitating electro-neural charge calibrated to dirtling physiology, though she had no easy way to communicate that. She retracted the caster and raised her arms in the dirtling sign of surrender, though the empty-hand gesture was meaningless with a shoulder-mounted weapon. "No, it is okay / Set phasers to stun."

"What? Oh…" said the Shane, finally clueing in to the rapid, laboured breathing of the unconscious female beside him. "You didn't kill them. You tased them."

"You're going to get every last one, I don't care how," the scientist replied, using the recorded words of the Pops leader.

"I guess… yeah, I guess we can't afford to dick around. Hell of a handy stun-gun you got there." He was silent for a time, and he helped the scientist gather up the unconscious dirtling family and bring them back to the skiff.

"Hey Jack. Sorry I doubted you," the Shane muttered as they were finishing up.

"That's it! You don't know Jack!" she answered. Though the dirtling race and her own might be at odds, it would be a long, strange day when she would be forced to kill unarmed younglings of any race, a day no hunter should hope to see.

A sense of excitement lingered with the scientist as their vehicle began the trip back to the base. Against all odds, she had found what she was looking for by sheer chance, and could still continue on her dirtling mission without interruption.

And as to the chunk of bony extrusion in her pouch, she couldn't wait to get it back to her ship and begin its analysis. What secrets would it yield, and what new questions would it pose?

Three hours, thirty-five minutes left till daybreak.

x x x x x

_**Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," central colony complex  
****Level 1 South: Main Vehicle Bay, vicinity of aerovehicle docking platform**_

As Kano piloted the air rover into the wide open compound in front of Nirvana Tower, he noted that the gunship _Ranger_ was parked in front of the vehicle bay ramp. It was unloading a procession of people, having undoubtedly landed just a few minutes before. Kano decided to land beside the ship instead of going straight into the vehicle bay; his passengers would have a few more yards to walk, but would get to intermingle with their fellow colonists on the way.

Aedon bounded out as soon as they landed, and headed back to join Wulcan in escorting the passengers. The evacuees from their second run had included a lot of tired, scared children, and the young man's skillful clowning had done right well to ease the way for them.

Kano stepped out onto the lush greenery and headed for the big gunship beside the rover. He could see the ship's master underneath the vessel, overseeing the people coming down his loading ramp. He also noted Director Sagan amidst the departing passengers, coordinating and supporting, and he saw Eve Owan beside Pappagallo at the loading ramp. She appeared to be arguing with him.

"But you do not understand," she was saying as Kano approached. "Every organism, every microbe on this planet was carefully introduced here as part of an ecological plan. _We_ cultivated every living thing on Sanjiva, and we certainly _did not_ put down any biological growth that eludes nightvision and sickens people!"

"Do you need any help ma'am?" said Pappagallo to an elderly woman who was making her way down the ramp with some difficulty. She quailed a little, intimidated by the tall merc, but she accepted his arm and allowed herself to be helped down the rest of the way. Then he turned his attention partially back to Eve.

"Alright, so it's not yours," he said, keeping an eye on the ramp. "Why is that a problem? Here, this way sir."

"It means that it could be something truly unknown!" exclaimed Owan, who was starting to lose her temper. "It could be a massive mutation of one of our bioforms, or it could be something native to this world, something the surveys missed! Or it could be from space, from some meteor-borne organism! We have no idea what effect it might have on human physiology, it could even harbour a contagious disease!"

The flow of colonists stopped near Eve and Pappagallo. They had heard that last bit.

"Move along, move along," Pappagallo said firmly, ushering the last of the colonists toward the main vehicle bay. Then he turned his attention fully to the Arcturan, his thumb nudging his cap brim further up his brow.

"If you've got a disease problem, then you had it before we showed up. It didn't go epidemic up to now, so it can wait a little longer," he said. "Besides, you hired us to deal with pirates. Ain't nothing we can do about germs."

"We've got problems to work on right now, we shouldn't be looking at new ones down the line," Pappagallo pre-empted Owan before she could protest further. "Everybody's got their eyes open, we'll notice if our weed does anything new. Till then we deal with the imminent threat, and nothing else." His tone of voice brooked no further argument.

Eve pursed her lips, displeased. "Fine."

As she moved off, Pappagallo finally looked to Kano, who had been standing by still and unmoving the whole time. "Status?"

"Nominal. Nothing unexpected yet," answered Kano. "Yours?"

"Running fucking slow," the old merc grumbled, in an uncharacteristic show of bad temper. "Took two bloody hours worth of begging and threatening to get everybody out of that commune, and we still got another to go. I'm gonna start shooting if that happens again, we're running out of time."

"We should get underway then," said Kano, and turned to move off.

"Wait," said Pappagallo, halting him. "You didn't come by to say 'howdy do'. What is it?"

"Owan is right," said Kano without turning to face him. "We're dealing with an unknown here, and the first rule of war is to know your enemy. Something is happening at the border settlements, and we don't know what. And I suspect that infestation has something to do with it."

"Ah Christ, what do you want me to do?" Pappagallo said disgustedly. "Issue weed-whackers? Owan wanted to go out with someone and collect samples, you think I should let her?"

"Of course not," said Kano. The golden-skinned woman had paramedic-level training, which made her as valuable as if she was actually made of gold. She could not be so casually risked.

"Then what?"

"Keep watch," Kano replied. "Watch for anything odd. Watch the borders. Watch the border colonists, who've been the most exposed. Don't let the pirates dominate your situational awareness. Watch."

With that, the master gunman walked away, heading back to the air rover. The old merc didn't stop him, and there was a troubled look on his face as he watched him go.

Two hours, forty minutes left till daybreak.

x x x x x

_**Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," Charon-Alpha canyon at 53 km. outside community border  
****Company personnel aerovehicle: Registry 7A36-OCS1, approaching Bohuslava homestead**_

Pistor swerved his airskiff back on course as he drifted a little too close to the canyon wall, and he swore under his breath.

He had been off-kilter ever since his experience back in the deserted Koski household. His focus was poor, he was edgy and tense, and there was an uncomfortable nagging anxiety somewhere deep in his gut. Something about this mission in the deep darkness was getting to him, and he was bone tired to boot.

Pistor had run other missions in far more dangerous and frightful circumstances than this, he didn't know why this particular job had him all keyed up so. The call from Brinnlitz about "invisible infestations" wasn't making things any easier, either.

"Alright, I see the Bohuslava place," he said to Gerhardt beside him. They were coming to a fork in the canyon, and the homestead was built on a plateau jutting from the center peninsula, some ten meters up. The plateau was fairly expansive, with a flat field of ferns big enough to hold a thrashball game in front of the house, and after a quick perimeter of the area Pistor brought the craft to a landing in the field.

The lights were off in the house and stayed so as Pistor and Gerhardt disembarked. Pistor could see that the front door was wide open, and he was already getting a bad feeling about the place. But there was barely an hour left before dawn now. He didn't have time for bad feelings.

"Let's go," he said to Gerhardt; they hadn't picked up anyone yet on this run, allowing her to come along rather than guard the skiff this time. The two of them moved off side by side, heading quickly toward the house.

"Hold it," said Pistor suddenly, stopping Gerhardt in her tracks. She saw him looking downward and followed his gaze, and she saw what he saw: the ferns were crushed flat in two parallel ruts, right by the porch of the house.

"Landing skids," she whispered in realization. "One of theirs?"

"No way to tell," said Pistor. Stepping forward, he squatted down and picked up something from beside one of the ruts. He held it up for Gerhardt to see: a cigarette butt, with a thin wisp of smoke still rising from the end.

"Whoever it was, they left here only a little while ago," he said.

"Nobody from Threshold drops cigarette stubs into our biome!" Gerhardt exclaimed. "The raiders are in this area, we should call it in!"

"We don't know that for sure," cautioned Pistor. "Could be someone getting careless or… wait. Something over there."

He was looking to the side of the house, at a smaller laboratory building nearby. Gerhardt followed as he jogged to the lab, and then she saw what he had spotted.

"Oh God," she said, feeling sick. It was a body, a fair-haired woman lying in a swath of bloodstained ferns. Her chest was a great ragged, bloody crater amidst the remnants of her blouse, and her face was contorted in agony.

"What… what happened to her?" Gerhardt gasped as Pistor squatted down to examine the remains closely. He might not be a mortician, but he was intimately familiar with injury and corpses, and he could tell the cause of most wounds.

"This is an exit wound, not an entrance," he said, dispassionately. "She must have got hit in the back. Probably an explosive round that discharged through the front of her chest. Strange though, she should be lying on her stomach if…"

"That's it, I'm calling it in. It's a fucking murder," Gerhardt snapped, her voice growing hoarse. She turned away, touched her headset with a shaky hand. "All units, this is Gina Gerhardt from Pistor's team. There's been recent pirate activity at our location! We've found tracks from another skiff and a gun murder victim at the Bohuslava homestead. Please advise!"

"Gina, this is _Nomad_," Tristan O'Hara's voice immediately responded. "Hang tight, I'm on my way to your quadrant, ETA ten minutes!"

"Gerhardt, Pops," came Pappagallo's voice next. "Take cover until _Nomad_ reaches your area, then continue your mission. There are only a few more homesteads to check and you'll have Harry's protection, you can make it. All other units, stay alert for enemy movement!"

"Copy that," Gerhardt confirmed. She started to move off but then paused and looked back, realizing that Pistor hadn't moved.

"I need help with the stretcher," she said impatiently. "What's the matter?"

"The smoker didn't do this. Blood is dry, this happened a while ago," said Pistor, frowning. "And it looks like she was convulsing when she died, but a wound like that should have killed her instantly. This is all wrong."

"If you're thinking of an autopsy, don't bother. We don't have anybody left who's trained for it," said Gerhardt. Pistor scowled.

"Alright, forget it," he said, standing up. "Don't bother with the stretcher, we need to check the house."

"We're not taking her back?"

"If we can't autopsy her, there's no point," the merc replied, then he caught himself as Gerhardt gave him a pained look.

"Gina, this is war, and we're on a rescue mission," he said gently. "There might be a lot more bodies ahead, and we can't afford to be the meat wagon."

Gerhardt nodded, feeling a chill come over her. She wondered, how many times had this diminutive man been in a situation like this? How many times had he stepped over dead bodies to carry out his mission? How many of those bodies had fallen by his own hand?

"Copy that," she said, turning coldly professional herself. "We need all our space for the homesteaders anyway. Let's go."

One hour, fifteen minutes left till daybreak.

x x x x x

_**Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," Charon-Alpha canyon at 40 km. outside community border  
****Bratovich homestead, cliffside edge of property**_

"…you can make it. All other units, stay alert for enemy movement!" concluded Pappagallo's transmission.

"Well. The game's afoot," murmured Brinnlitz, and a slow smile came across his face. The dear moppets were abroad tonight after all, and he might very possibly be about to meet them.

The sniper's eyes narrowed, one eye covered by his filament eyepiece, trying again to pierce the furthest reaches of the dark canyon. He was standing guard by his airskiff near the edge of a high shelf in the canyon wall, while his partner Olga cajoled the inhabitants of the nearby house. He leaned over the sturdy railing and squinted into the darkness. Had he seen something out there just now?

Brinnlitz stayed unmoving there for a time, indifferent to the howling wind rippling through his clothes. He could dimly hear Olga arguing with the Bratovichs in their house, and wondered how long she was going to take. They were running dangerously late from the long travel times to and between the outermost homesteads, and on their last run, the Bratovich homestead was the first house of three that still had people in it.

Suddenly, Olga burst out the door of the house, swearing angrily, and stomped over to him. Brinnlitz raised an eyebrow.

"I take it negotiations are not going well," he said, unperturbed.

"Of all the wilfully blind, bone-headed fucktards who ever..." the stocky young woman stopped herself, took a deep breath. "I don't think we're moving these ones. They're the furthest away from the colony and they like it that way. I didn't think there were any of us Sanjivans that stupid."

"Ah. Well let me have a try, perhaps I can chat them up a little," said Brinnlitz, stepping back from the railing. _And should that fail, there's always the direct approach_, he thought to himself, reaching into his jacket to loosen the tranq pistol in his underarm holster.

"If you can talk them out, I'll eat my…" Olga stopped. The sniper had abruptly sprang forward and was leaning over the railing again, staring out into the dark. "What? What is it?"

Brinnlitz hadn't imagined it. It was gone now but he had pegged it, a faint glimmer of light far in the distance down the lightless canyon.

"Pistor, from Brinnlitz," he radioed out, tapping his headset touchpad to increase the gain and volume. "In what canyon did you and Gerhardt find your 'recent activity'?"

"Brinnlitz," came Pistor's reply. "We're in Charon Canyon on the east end." Brinnlitz's eyes widened. He and Pistor were in the same canyon.

"Pistor, are you on the move?"

"Negative on that, we're still clearing our site."

The sniper whirled and grabbed Olga's shoulder, roughly shoving her ahead of him as he hustled to the house.

"We've got company," he answered her protestation, and briefly turned to look as they reached the front door. His suspicion was born through: there were two pinprick lights now, lighting up the floor and vegetation of the distant canyon. Headlamps.

"Everyone, we have a few pirates who might be visiting soon," Brinnlitz announced to the gathered Cherenkov family as he strode into their living room. "I need you all to turn out the lights and head down to the basement, and you should be very quiet. Don't you worry, I'll make sure nobody gets hurt." Excluding their adversaries, of course. He was so hoping they wouldn't just fly by.

"Give me your shotgun, and hide your pistol in your jacket," he instructed Olga. "Stay with the family. Go along if the pirates take them prisoner, and don't start shooting until I do. They'll never see it coming. Got it?"

"Got it," she answered in a growl, sounding quite rough and tough. Brinnlitz smiled at the suppressed fear in her voice, her face, her body language. How delightfully heroic.

He sprinted away, bounding up the stairs and then heading for the forwardmost section of the upper floor. The master bedroom had a sliding window overlooking the front of the house, and he grasped and ripped out the safety bolt that kept the window from fully opening. Brinnlitz readied his rifle, stepping a pace away from the open window so as not to expose the long barrel, and he hummed happily to himself as he quickly ranged the area. The entire front yard of the house was his playground now, he just had to wait and see if the visitors actually stopped to play.

Brinnlitz wasn't disappointed. A large hoversled came into view, a gaudily flame-painted craft with an impressive heavy machinegun tripod in the rear bed and another in a fixed-forward mount at the nose. It decelerated and played its lights over the homestead as it passed by, then it circled back and came to land beside the colonial airskiff.

The enemy vehicle had a retractable top that was folded open, and Brinnlitz suppressed a snicker at the sight of the four exposed men inside. Top open, beers in hand, macho body language. These ones were on a midnight joyride, and were not expecting to need all the guns they were toting along.

Three of the men came out. All were in brutish tough-guy clothes, all leather, jeans, chains and jewelry. They were all scarred, heavily tattooed and laden with guns and knives, looking somewhere between hardened gangsters and bondage fetishists. He could tell they weren't posers though. They were killers, modern-day barbarians as mean as they looked, and every bit of prestige and bling they flaunted was earned in human suffering. In short, his favourite kind of man.

As the pirates went over to Brinnlitz's skiff, and started checking it over, the sniper touched his headset and whispered into the mic.

"All units, Brinnlitz. Hostiles in sight. Targets unaware, I'm preparing to ambush."

"Brinnlitz, _Nomad _is just two minutes away!" O'Hara answered. "I'm coming in high, should keep it quiet for you."

"Brinnlitz, Pops," came Pappagallo's voice next. "Remember, we don't want them calling home. Attack only if you're spotted, and then take them out fast. And Brinnlitz… don't do this for fun. Don't forget."

"I hear you, old man," Brinnlitz murmured, scowling. Spoilsport.

One of the men let out an unpleasant-sounding laugh: he had the colony skiff's engine section open and had doubtless discovered the pristine fuel cell within. Brinnlitz sighted on him, settled the crosshairs on the man's tattooed brow and followed his movements as he bent and detached the cell.

Another of the men called for attention: he had found the spare cell in the storage compartment. The sniper aimed at him next, then turned his sights to the nearby third man. This would be so easy, they were clustered close together with clear shots on all of them; he could take them all down before any could flee.

But then there was the fourth, sitting at the controls of their own craft and obscured by the windscreen. Brinnlitz didn't have a clear shot on him. Whether any of them had comm units or not, that one would have access to the vehicle's radio for sure. And if he just gunned the engine and took off when his buddies started dropping, then the lurking sniper might get him, or he might not.

The alternative was to take out the pilot first, but that could potentially give his amigos time to take cover behind the skiffs. And then, they would start using their arsenal of weapons and grenades on the house, and the whole scene would turn to a grand clusterfuck.

Brinnlitz ground his teeth as he watched the raiders outside. At his level of skill, he could take them all down before they found their wits, he was sure of it. But he wasn't _completely_ sure. Could he risk it? Did he really care that much about all those previous foolish promises and plans?

Two of the pirates were now standing with one behind the other while they talked, just stopping a while to sip their beer and shoot the shit. The sniper's finger tightened on the trigger; he could take them both with a single penetrating shot. The pilot was standing so as to look down and chat with them too, and was exposed from the waist up. It would be perfect.

Two leather-clad men, falling into each other as they collapse like lovers into each other's arms. The third man nearby stares with his jaw dropped, then the jaw disintegrates in a shower of blood and teeth as another bullet goes through his neck, and he goes down with a gagging, musical gurgle as blood fills his throat. The pilot is similarly stunned but only for a second, and he starts to drop down into his seat. But he doesn't drop fast enough, and the top of his head explodes, spraying a magnificent plume of gore and bone and brains over the rear seats of the skiff…

Brinnlitz's finger slowly loosened on the trigger of his rifle. The pirates were moving to their flyer now, taking the fuel cells but ignoring the house. He followed them with his crosshairs as they clambered back into their vehicle, and his excitement and anticipation ebbed away. They weren't threatening, weren't going to discover him or his civilians, and he wasn't going to play with them. He was letting them pillage his vehicle and sail away, leaving the rescue operation safely undiscovered.

As the enemy skiff lifted off, Brinnlitz tossed his rifle onto the nearby bed and flopped down on the bed himself. He put his hands behind his head and laid back with a long heartfelt sigh.

"Boo-ooring," he groused, drawing out the word in a feigned yawn. Had Piers Pappagallo been present to hear him say that, the old merc would have frozen in horror.

One hour left till daybreak

x x x x x

_**Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," Keller-Bravo canyon at 45 km. from community border  
****USAAC Combat Airscout: XBGT02 Pursuit Special, en route to Tadeusz homestead**_

The military air rover was decelerating for an approaching sharp curve when Kano spotted it: another vehicle, parked on a wide shelf in the curved canyon wall ahead. He pulled up and braked hard, and engaged the rover's hoverjets as it came to a stop in midair.

"Ow! What, what?" exclaimed Aedon from the turret gunner's seat, roughly awakened from his doze and rubbing his tired, watery eyes. Kano wordlessly answered by bringing up a telescopically magnified image on the green-lit main screen: a wingless airskiff, the size of a truck or small yacht. The foreign vehicle's rear tripod and forward mounted machineguns were plainly evident, but there was no one on the open deck of the craft.

"Shit, one of theirs," Wulcan said tersely. "We better blast that motherfucker before the crew gets back."

"Wait," said Kano. "This vehicle has a silent mode, and we are low on heavy munitions. We can go in quietly and take them on foot, and possibly capture that skiff."

"Oh yeah. I like the sound of that," said Dameon, with a menacing smile.

"Well I don't," protested Wulcan, as Kano accelerated toward the shelf. "This is bloody risky Mr. Iceman, and we got a load of people in the back. We should play it safe."

"There is no safe option," replied Kano. "Destroying the skiff leaves the crew alive, who could call in with hand comms. Retreating puts an enemy unit at our backs, and we have one more pickup to make. No, an ambush on the ground is our best chance of neutralizing them all before they can call for help."

"Well I guess you're the fucking boss. Let's do it then," said Wulcan, darkly.

Appropriate notifications were given, warning the passengers not to go outside on this stop and alerting the circling _Nomad_ of a new pirate sighting. And by then, the rover had reached the shelf, choosing a landing site close to the pirate vehicle, behind a rock outcropping that just barely hid it from view.

The jutting shelf was a thing of astonishing, mysterious beauty, swathed with a carpet of lush ferns and flowering vines, and interspersed with a forest of giant mushrooms up to three meters tall whose undersides glowed with a clear blue-white phosphorescent light. In the darkness, each mushroom was like a small island of shining, flowering life, with dozens of these islands following the curve of the shelf like rafts of light in a flowing river.

"Pretty, innit?" smiled Wulcan. Dameon was stunned, whispering "My God" at the sight, and for a flitting instant even the hardened Kano was taken aback. Just for an instant though.

"Wulcan, you man the smart gun while we're gone," said Kano as he detached his harness. "It's easy. The weapon aims itself, just point and shoot. If you lose contact with us and pirates come around that rock, assume the worst and retreat. Understood?"

"Got it."

Kano turned and opened the hatch without another word. He looked over at Aedon, motioned him to follow with a tilt of his head, and headed out.

The two mercs stepped out and made their way around the outcropping to reach the middle of the shelf. Though the carpet of ferns and vines made their footing difficult at times, it also naturally muffled the sound of their footsteps.

"Stay out of the light," Kano whispered into his headset mic, transmitting from his comms to Dameon's. "We're going to their vehicle first. Watch for hostiles hidden inside."

They reached the pirate airskiff. Moving fast, Kano vaulted aboard with Aedon right behind. Once assured there was no one else aboard, the veteran merc made his way to the pilot's chair and immediately noticed the cardkey in its slot. Aedon smiled as Kano took the key and passed it to him. Overconfidence led to carelessness, and these pirates had just lost their ride.

Kano inspected the radio panel next. He took note of the frequency that was last used, then produced a long knife and swiftly pried open the underside of the panel. Reaching inside, he yanked out a small circuit board, and the display went dark. He pocketed the board. No more radio for them either.

Finally, he went over to each of the machineguns in turn, opening them up and confiscating the trigger pin for each. No more guns. The pirate vehicle was now effectively crippled, yet its missing components could be reinstalled quickly and easily.

Moving fast, Kano exited the vehicle with Aedon in tow. The pirates had been gone awhile already, they could be back any second now. The two proceeded down the shelf for a time, taking care to avoid the light of the mushrooms, and after a time Kano came to a halt near a small ridge of rock outcroppings crossing the shelf. There was only one way their enemies could pass this position. They would set their ambush here.

Kano selected a chest-high section of the ridge and sat down cross-legged behind it, and to Aedon's surprise, he seemed to let down his guard. The veteran sat back and relaxed, glancing up momentarily at the brightening sky. Dawn was just minutes away now.

Dameon chose his own ambush spot behind a similar rock outcropping, just a little ways away from Kano. He crouched down in a ready position, but then with a look at the master gunman, he decided to sit in a more relaxed position as well. The young merc gazed over at Kano again and shook his head in befuddlement; the veteran had picked one of the Sanjivan vine-flowers and was gazing at it contemplatively, as if he was composing a poem. Expert as he may be, Dameon's teammate was a hard one to figure out.

Wondering how relaxed he should allow himself to be, Aedon loosened his pistol in its holster, and he unsheathed his katana and leaned it against the rock outcropping. Then he looked over at the utterly relaxed and serene-seeming Kano again, and he changed his mind, instead taking the sword and laying it across his lap. There, casual and still ready for action.

Dameon looked up one more time to check on Kano, and found himself staring down the barrel of the veteran's gun. The pistol's report was like the crack of a whip.

Aedon felt the shot hiss by his ear, and his startled expectation of betrayal was instantly quelled as he heard a solid meaty impact and a gasping grunt behind him. He whirled to see a big leather-clad man slumping to the ground with a hole in his forehead, and just at that moment another imposing, bearded outlaw came around the outcropping and froze as they saw each other.

The pirate let out a yell and reached for his sidearm. Aedon's draw was faster: the lad surged forward on one knee and drove the tip of his katana deep into the man's chest. The outlaw's shout was cut off as his heart was neatly bisected, and he was already dead before his body slumped to the ground.

Lodged in bone, Dameon's sword-tip was pulled to the ground with the body, and the young man snarled in frustration as he struggled to free his blade. He looked back over his shoulder at Kano, gasping a jumble of garbled words as he tried to think of any apology or excuse that could pardon such a shoddy performance.

The veteran looked completely unperturbed, seeming to expect it long ahead of time as a third pirate with a machinegun vaulted over the ridge between the two mercs. Another gunshot rang out, and the chain-swathed goon's legs collapsed under him when he landed, the side of his head shattered.

Snapping back to alertness, Aedon spun to face forward again, just in time to see the fourth member of the pirate team come around the rock on his side. The gaunt tattooed man was whirling one way and the next, searching wild-eyed for the attackers, and didn't notice Dameon at first. The lad yanked desperately at his sword to try to free it from the corpse, then he gave up on it and snatched his pistol instead, just as the thin pirate saw him.

Both men dived for cover, shooting wildly at each other. Neither scored a hit, and Aedon scrambled behind a nearby giant mushroom. He peeked out to see his adversary running headlong up the shelf towards his skiff, and cursing with fury, he emptied his clip ineffectively at the fleeing man. Jumping out, Aedon stumbled a moment over a knot of vines as he made to give chase.

"Let him go," said Kano as he came up beside Aedon. "He has nowhere to run, and I'm uninterested in chasing over this terrain in the dark."

"What about their comms?" the young man panted.

"The other three aren't carrying any. I would assume he has none either."

Then Kano looked up, one eyebrow raised in a faintly displeased expression as the hum of a hover engine broke the silence. "It appears however, that he does have a spare key."

"Ah shit," Dameon swore as he saw the pirate airskiff lift off. "Come on, we gotta chase him now! What are you waiting for?"

The veteran didn't answer, just watched on as the vehicle turned tail and started accelerating away at maximum boost. Raising one of his pistols, he sighted down the barrel and took careful aim at the back of the skiff. Aedon stared at him, and started to snap out an impatient, sarcastic remark. Then Kano fired.

Even at that distance, through his nightvision the lad clearly saw the spray of blood that splashed over the inside of the skiff's windscreen. The pilot slumped in his seat, and his craft wobbled in the air and then went into a nosedive to the canyon floor. A moment after impact the vehicle exploded, lighting up a long stretch of the canyon; the pirates evidently had volatile materials aboard, likely stolen booster fuel or liquid oxygen. The moan of the wind was drowned out for a moment as the thunder of the explosions rolled by.

Aedon slowly pulled his eyes away from the fading fireworks and settled them on Kano, who had lowered his pistol. The lad was so stunned and astounded that he could barely speak.

"That… that was… the most… fucking amazing shot..." he managed to get out.

"The worst," Kano interrupted, his voice a soft growl of disgust. "I was aiming at the skiff."

Had the merc struck the aileron he'd been aiming for, the flyer would have been reduced to either flying in circles or crawling along on its hoverjets. Either way, it would have been left helpless and intact, and he would have had his prisoner and a captured aerovehicle. Now, all he had was a fireball that was going to attract unwelcome attention before long. No, this wasn't Kano's best moment as a master of the gun.

"Get Wulcan over here and strip the bodies," he said to the gawking Dameon, coldly. "We need their guns, and they were carrying power cells of some kind. Move fast, and give Pappagallo an update while you're at it. I'm going to see what they were doing."

Kano moved off at a brisk walk, following the gentle downward slope of the shelf around the inner curve of the canyon, the direction the pirate team had come from. What had brought them to this empty spot in the first place?

Though the sun was not yet up, almost a third of the sky was bright with light. When Kano rounded the curve, he found that reddish-gold light reflected back at him from a small tower, seemingly covered in mirrors. Was this what the pirates had been investigating? There was no other sign of habitation or objects of value anywhere, so that would seem to be the case. He moved in.

The tower was the size of a small lighthouse, built into the canyon wall a ways down from the edge of the shelf. There was a narrow metal bridge with one railing collapsed, going some ten meters out to a sliding door in the side. The door was half-open, and Kano could see electronic monitors and consoles within from the end of the bridge. Was this a solar collector station, perhaps?

Kano's suspicions were confirmed when he crossed the bridge to check the interior. The mirrors were photoelectric cells, the electronics inside the building were made to collect, analyze and monitor Naraka's rays, and the superconductor storage batteries were missing, very likely the canister-like objects the pirates had been carrying. There were no colonists or anything else of interest in the tower, so he headed out. The evacuation was now officially running late; dawn was almost here, and there was no time to lose.

The ghost of fatigue was starting to creep through him again as the stimulant of battle faded, but as he was coming to the halfway mark on the bridge, the fatigue was abruptly gone.

Like many whose lives had oft depended on it, Kano's unconscious mind was capable of gathering sensory information and realizing a threat in nearly an instant, sometimes long before his conscious mind had caught up. He stopped cold on the bridge, one foot before the other. This open and exposed place was the worst possible place to be caught flat-footed. Where was the threat?

If it hadn't been for the rosy light of approaching sunrise, he wouldn't have seen it at all, for there was no trace of it on his nightvision eyepiece. Only his uncovered eye saw it: a massive spider lurking near the foot of the bridge, hairless and fleshy, big as the disk of a docking clamp. He had time to register the thought that this thing did not belong in this place, any more than did kangaroos or little green men. And then it was upon him, flying through the air straight at his face.

Kano had no time to think, only to do. For some reason, his instinct was not to duck or quick-draw his guns; instead his rear foot flashed upward and drove straight out heel-first at eye-level, in a snap kick faster than most human eyes could see. The impact was solid; the creature was not light. What should have happened then was that the jumping spider should have bounced high up into the air, giving him time to leisurely draw and fill the thing with holes before it hit the ground.

Instead, moving with superhuman reflexes of its own, the hideous thing caught and wrapped its legs partway around his boot, grabbing on and scrabbling for purchase with its long multi-jointed limbs. A whipping segmented tail struck his calf, snaking over the knee as it started to wrap around his leg. Revulsion shivered through his body.

Scarcely conscious of what he was doing, Kano threw himself backward in mid-air, his other foot swooping up and overhead in a savage bicycle kick that tore the writhing spider from his leg and punted it soccer-style toward the solar collector tower. The master gunman landed on his hands and twisted in the air to drop to his feet facing the tower, both guns flashing from his holsters. But even his acrobatics and lightning speed barely had him positioned in time for the retaliation.

The spider had struck the side of the tower and latched on, and it was diving at him again just as he saw it. It was so fast, so very fast. He just barely had time to bring his guns to bear, and then he finally took it down, his hail of bullets stopping it dead in the air as though it had hit a wall.

The corpse of the thing plopped wetly at his feet, and he stepped smartly backward as the yellow innards splattered all over, managing to avoid getting the mess on his boots. Kano's eyes widened then as he saw the fuming stuff eating through the metal of the bridge. It looked like hot oil melting its way through an ice sculpture, going clean through the walkway and then through the support latticework underneath that.

The spider corpse drooped and fell through the hole its corrosive juices were melting, and the bridge began to slump alarmingly as its modest support structure was eaten away. Turning to run, Kano paused a moment and looked out to the shelf and the primeval mushroom forest from whence the creature had come. There could be dozens of the things in there, and he'd never see them. Suddenly, the landscape was no longer a thing of beauty, but of hidden menace.

Kano turned back instead and jumped over the hole, bounding gracefully over the wobbling bridge to the tower door. He had been kicking and backflipping on this meter-wide bridge just seconds earlier; this was the designated place for high-risk acrobatics, it seemed.

"Wulcan, Aedon," the merc radioed his team as he looked out from the doorway of the tower. His voice was intense, his normal calmness barely detectable. "Stop and get into the rover right now, and close all the hatches."

"What the fuck is going on?" demanded Wulcan in response.

"Move fast," he said firmly, his eyes scanning up and down the shelf for movement. Were there any more of the creature? And how had the pirates avoided it? Sheer luck? Or did they have some sort of repellant or other method of control?

"Okay, we're in. What's the story?" came Aedon's voice from the comms. Kano hesitated a long moment before he answered.

"Something attacked me, some kind of… animal. Very fast, very aggressive. There could be more of them in the bushes, we have to be cautious."

"Animal? What kind of animal? There ain't no fucking animals on Sanjiva besides fish!" said an incredulous Wulcan.

"There's a solar tower around the bend. Pick me up there," said Kano, ignoring her. "And stay alert."

He calmed himself and waited, and his breathing gradually slipped back into its normal deep rhythm as he found his center. His body and mind stilled as he regained his meditative focus again, but it took a noticeable moment of time now, longer than his discipline would normally need.

Kano had been badly shaken by the encounter. His life had been threatened countless times by humans and environmental hazards, he had even encountered unfriendly wildlife on alien planets before, but he had never seen anything like that spider thing. Had it been just a fraction of an hour earlier, he never would have spotted it in the dawning light, and it would have taken him in the dark.

Then it struck him: it hadn't appeared in his nightvision. Just like the mystery infestation reported by Brinnlitz. That couldn't be a coincidence. And he had never heard of any substance that could even theoretically degrade through plasteel, yet the creature's body had been full of it. This thing was like no animal he had ever heard of, even freaks like the electric eel and giant sandmaw.

Pappagallo's scout rover finally rounded the bend and moved to hover beside the solar collector tower, and Kano jumped aboard.

"It can wait till the debriefing," he said, halting his companions' questions. "Any pirates in the area will be coming to investigate the explosion, and our cover of darkness will be gone in twenty minutes at best. We have one homestead left. We must hurry."

Naraka was dawning. The operation was out of time.

x x x x x

_**Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," Charon-Bravo canyon at 54 km. outside community border  
****Polonski homestead, front porch**_

"Oh God," Gerhardt whispered.

She and Pistor were at the Polonski household, and Pistor had just opened the front door. He had stopped cold, and Gerhardt had moved closer to peer over the small man's shoulder.

There was a dead man laying within, all torn up and still clutching a shotgun, but she noticed him almost as an afterthought. The entire hallway was crawling with _growths_, skeletal whitish-green things that looked jagged and artificial in some places and sinuously organic in others, covering the roof and plastered over most of the walls. The hallway was transformed to something out of nightmare, the growths blending together in patterns that evoked images of ravaged internal organs, mechanical engineworks, ancient torture devices, disturbing sexual imagery, and decaying corpse-flesh.

Gerhardt had never even conceived of anything like it in all her life. Like her companion, she had one eyepiece down and the other retracted so as to take advantage of both nightvision and her normal vision, and she was all too aware that on NV all she could see was fuzzy, staticky shadow.

"Pistor? Are we going to check for people… in there?" she asked, her voice coming out ragged and hoarse. The sight of the place filled her with awful fear, and she wasn't sure she could go any further.

"No," said the merc, his voice deceptively relaxed. Something in there had killed that man, even armed as he was, and no one could possibly be living in such a place day-to-day. "Fall back. Now."

He closed the door and the two of them backed away. It was quite strange how the house could look so pristine on the outside and yet hold such festering corruption within.

The dawn sun was peeking over the top edge of the closest canyon wall, and the small shelf on which the house was built was bathed in faint orange light. The knee-high ferns covering the front yard glowed in the soft light. The air was still and heavy, and there was a feeling of waiting menace all around, yet it seemed oddly peaceful too.

The two had almost made it to their nearby airskiff when they felt the ground shift under their feet. Gerhardt's instinct was to freeze in place. She felt the firm earth crumbling underfoot, then the ground abruptly sank half a foot underneath her and she wobbled drunkenly, barely staying upright.

"_Move!_" Her partner shouted, and suddenly he threw himself against her, barreling into her back. Though shorter than her, the small merc was a solid block of compact, heavy muscle, and the impact sent the slender woman flying.

The ground gave way. Cursing and clawing at the dirt, Pistor vanished into the collapsing hole. Gerhardt had been thrown almost clear, and she hastily grabbed the landing skid of their vehicle and pulled her long legs out of the fissure.

Down below, the merc landed on his back with a thud, and he was momentarily stunned. He stared up at the light a long moment, dazed, just watching the dust clouds settle. Then, pulling himself together, he sat up to take in his new surroundings.

Fear settled into his gut like a cold weight. His senses seemed to be swimming, and there was a low, deep, phantasmal droning in his ears. But for the ray of faint dawn light from above, it was utterly dark, and he saw nothing on his NV at all, just static and formless shadowy shapes.

_It was utterly dark_. He couldn't see anything at all. Fear grew, spiraling into mind-numbing terror. He had to get out of here. What if… what if there were _things_ in the dark?

"Gerhardt? Find the rope and throw it down. Hurry," Pistor called into the crack above, not quite able to shout, but still under control.

"Copy that, give me a second!" he heard his partner yell back down. Her voice was oddly muted, though she only seemed to be seven or eight meters up.

His hands shaking, Pistor pulled a flare from his belt and raised his submachinegun. Dull red light sparked and bloomed. The flare fell from nerveless fingers to land amidst… winding bone-tentacles, slimy patterns on the floor. He knew where he was.

It was a large underground room or cave, he wasn't sure which. The growths were everywhere, infesting all of the floor and the one encrusted wall he could see in the low flare-light. The one place he didn't want to be, and it had to be here.

There was a low, breathy hiss, almost a sigh. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion as he raised his gaze to the sound.

Like a vision from his worst nightmares, he saw a set of fanged teeth grinning in the darkness, just four meters away from his face. So that was what a gene-engineered dog actually looked like, he could only remember glimpses of them as a child. It was big, perhaps bigger than him. Long, sleek body, gleaming slick and black in the low light. It sighed again, jaws opening, and a second pair of jaws opened within them. He felt his mind slipping.

Outside, Gina Gerhardt almost jumped out of her skin as a blood-curdling scream rose from the crack in the ground beside the airskiff. Clutching the rope from the engine toolbox, she rushed to the side of the skiff just in time to hear the hissing rapid-fire report of a silenced submachinegun echo from the fissure.

"_Gimmethegoddamnrope!_" Pistor shrieked from below. He sounded like he was fighting for his very life. Her mind whirling, Gerhardt raced to tie the micropolymer rope to the safety rail of the vehicle.

Pistor had expected to be playing it sneaky if it came down to a firefight, and had packed a sound/flash suppressor attachment for his weapon. He was regretting it now, wishing for the bright flash of a muzzle flare to light up the crippling darkness.

The dog had jumped sideways and was racing away into the dark. He had scored a few hits but thought he saw sparks off the animal's hide, as though his flechettes were striking an armoured skin. The fucker was _fast_, dodging and weaving, looking for its opportunity to jump at him. Pistor drew his autopistol with his off-hand and unloaded with alternate bursts, holding the creature back. Microflechettes might be poor against armour, but they packed a lot of them in a clip, and he could keep this up a while without reloading.

But then the dog dodged behind a thick bony pillar, and just like that, it was gone. Pistor searched wildly, swinging one way then the next. He snarled a guttural snarl, born of primal terror and ferocity, and opened up on the column with both guns, shredding the pillar till he could see through it. The dog had plumb vanished into thin air.

From somewhere in the room, there was a soft hiss in the darkness. The beast was still here, and he couldn't see it. It could be anywhere, getting ready to pounce on him from any direction. Pistor's snarl turned into a whimper. He couldn't take much more of this.

"Here!" came a cry from above. A rope fell from the crack above him, a lifeline going up into the light. Pistor dropped his weapons and jumped for it, yanking himself upward one swinging arm at a time.

Gerhardt had never imagined a man could climb a rope so fast. The micropolymer line had barely settled in the hole before Pistor was out, throwing himself backward away from the collapsed pit. His submachinegun was still on its shoulder strap and he whipped it up and sprayed downward into the hole in a long burst. Even while he was shooting, his off-hand was blurring to his belt to fling a finger-sized tube into the fissure, and Gerhardt flinched and ducked away as a thunderous explosion collapsed the hole.

Unsatisfied, Pistor threw another grenade into the pit, and threw his arms over his face as the dirt rained down. After that, all that was left of the hole was a shallow smoking crater.

He sat up and trained his gun on the crater, hyperventilating, and a long moment passed. The sunlight was warm and gentle after the cold of the night, and the field of ferns glimmered with shining dew. A gradual sense of peace came over him. His vision, his hearing, his feelings were all fine, he felt better. In fact, it was as if everything that had happened in that hellish pit had never been.

"All clear," he croaked. Gerhardt holstered her weapon and jumped down, rushed over to him. He was vaguely aware that she was talking to him, asking if he was alright, where was he hurt. He allowed her to run her hands over his body, checking for injury. And then suddenly he wrapped his arms around her, his body acting of its own accord in a childish, regressive, desperate need for comfort.

Gerhardt froze a moment, then melted into the merc's muscled arms before she knew what she was doing. The moment was overwhelmingly cathartic to be sure, but she hadn't been held by a man for years now and it felt damn good. His breath was warm on her neck, his compact body hard against hers. She could get used to this.

"What happened? What happened down there?" she asked when they finally parted. Pistor looked at her, his gaze unreadable, then answered.

"There was something down there… or maybe not," he said. "It was all full of that infestation. That stuff plays with your head… I think I was seeing things, something from my past. I don't know what I saw. But it was fucked up."

"That shit's more dangerous than we thought," Gerhardt murmured. She glanced at the house, not too far distant, and shuddered. The innocuous-looking homestead was full of that strange corruption. Everything seemed deceptively safe now, out here in the light, but there was only the thickness of a door between them and that hideous stuff.

"Time to go," said Pistor, echoing her thought.

"Should we go on to the next house?" she asked, as the two of them moved into the skiff's front seats. "We didn't get anybody this trip."

"The hell with that, we've done all we can," said Pistor curtly. "Sun's up, the mission's overdue. If there's a high-altitude flyer up there, we could be spotted any minute."

"Besides," he muttered. "I've had about all I can take."

"Same here," Gerhardt concurred tiredly, and she revved up the hoverjets. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

x x x x x

_Author's Notes:_

_Again, sorry about the slow update rate. A busy college schedule plus some nagging writer's block can make for some marked lack of story. Anyway, this chapter is a somewhat risky experiment for me: there isn't anything that really corresponds to it in either The Seven Samurai or The Magnificent Seven. I'm basically going off-script here, making up original material so I can give my secondary characters a chance to shine. Well, I never did say that I was trying to transcribe either movie EXACTLY, did I? I hope this little experiment doesn't detract from the main story, post a comment and let me know what you think, eh?_

_-SA  
_


	9. The Face of the Enemy

CHAPTER 9: THE FACE OF THE ENEMY

_**Planet Sanjiva, primary satellite of Omega Cygni a.k.a. "Naraka" in the Cygnus Star Region****  
Tapana Badlands somewhere west of Threshold community border  
Base camp of the "Shadow Hearts" space raider clan**_

Oslo "Tiny" Tupolev was having a bad night, and it was only getting worse.

"About time," growled the giant heavily-muscled raider commander, as Olek and his team entered the low-lit bridge of the hovership. They were hefting carry-sacks of what looked like rocks.

"Now what the hell is it you found, and how does it help us find Piotr's team?" Tupolev asked, narrowing his eyes as he looked at the sacks.

"Well you know we found their camp site, right boss? No sign of them, but everything was covered in this shit."

Olek snapped his fingers and pointed at the floor, and his three guys came up and emptied their sacks at the foot of Tupolev's command chair.

"I figured you'd want to see them yourself, so we shot off a few pieces," said Olek, breaking into a gap-toothed smile as Tupolev sat bolt upright and widened his eyes. "Stuff was even growing over their bloody airskiff. We couldn't cut it loose."

Tupolev stared at the rock bits. Or bone bits, more like. Greenish-white, all snarled up like intestines, creepy as hell. He'd seen 'em before.

"Now I wasn't there, but from what I heard, it sounds like the shit at Vern's last site looked a lot like this," said Olek. "How about it Tupe? This could be a big-ass clue! You were there man, this the same shit?"

"You fucking idiot," said Tupolev, his deep voice becoming a low, dangerous rumble. The grin faded from Olek's pitted face.

"You brought it here. You fucking idiot. Did it ever occur to any of you pox-rotted morons that this crap might be _contagious_?"

Tupolev's powerful voice rose and rose until he was bellowing at the last word. The bridge crew flinched; the four raiders cringed. All the colour drained from Olek's face.

"Incinerator!" the commander roared. The bridge gunner rushed to the armory cabinet and tossed a flamethrower unit to Tupolev, who had vaulted over the back of his chair. Olek and his team dived out of the way as Tupolev blasted the floor, passing the fire stream back and forth until all of the weird fragments were blackened husks. The fire alarm went off, and the gunner grabbed the fire extinguisher beside the armory and doused the burning gel with chemical retardant. Tupolev then looked at Olek, who had risen to his knees, and the commander's weapon followed his gaze.

"Whoa. Tupe. Don't do nothing crazy man. Easy," said Olek, cold with fear.

"I ought to torch your dumb ass too. Maybe it's nothing, and maybe you just killed us all," Tupolev snarled. "Get your asses to the sawbones for a complete physical, and I mean rubber-gloves-and-lube complete. Don't fucking touch nothing or nobody on the way."

"Oh and Olek," the commander held up a hand, halting the team leader's retreat. "If this stuff starts popping up around the base camp and more guys start going missing, then I _will_ torch you. Slowly. Starting with your feet. Now get out of my sight."

The shaken Olek was only too happy to oblige.

"Man looked like he was about to fill his pants," chuckled the hovership captain, Jeriko. There wasn't much in the way of actual humour or amusement in his voice though.

"If fear of frying keeps you maggots from doing anything that fucking stupid, then be advised that I'll torch your asses same deal!" Tupolev barked at the bridge crew. "And you, Janssen!"

"Me?" The gunner froze in place.

"Yeah, you," he fixed the man in his gaze. "Slick moves. You just earned yourself a free ration of whatever the fuck you want from supply. If I had more raiders with your wits, maybe I wouldn't have so many of the assholes missing."

"Hey thanks Tupe!" Janssen exhaled in relief.

"Yeah, about that," said Captain Jeriko, meeting Tupolev's eyes. "One team of guys missing, okay, maybe they got drunk and stuck their peckers in their gun barrels just for shits and giggles. I can buy that, sure wouldn't be the first time. But two teams? Two sets of trigger-happy killers armed to the teeth and in constant radio contact with base? That I don't buy."

"No shit," said Tupolev, who was reloading the incinerator before returning it to the armory. "I ain't buying it any more than you. But Piotr hasn't been missing all that long, I gotta give him a chance before I call him MIA."

"I'm just saying, I wouldn't wait. It's your guys, your call. But if it was that many of my guys, I'd be calling a fucking raid. Just saying."

"You don't even have that many guys on this boat," groused Tupolev. "Yeah, yeah, I hear you Jerry. I got a good idea who it is, too. It's not the colony broads, at this point they'd grab their ankles if we rattled our zipper. It's that other gang, the sneaks. They never bothered us till now, so either they're not getting enough swag from the colony or they think they've found an advantage over us."

"You sure? What if the broads found their nerve? Aedon thinks that women are too ladylike to fight, but I've seen what a bitch can do when her back is to the wall."

"Yeah, so have I. They lose all the same though, nine times out of ten, and they know it. If they were gonna try something, they wouldn't chip away at us bit by bit. They'd all throw themselves at us in one last charge. It ain't them."

"So what are we supposed to do against this fucking ghost clan? Christ, snatching two raiding teams and half a terraforming colony without a single guy or slave barge ever seen? I never even heard of anybody who could hide so good."

"What do we do? Well I got some ideas, and they all involve bait and transmitters," said Tupolev, "But I need to sound off with Aedon before I start picking fights with another clan. And I need to be sure that Piotr didn't just blow his radio and is actually having fun with the broads right now. Get Krebbs on the line."

"Wait, no. Fuck that," he changed his mind as a crewman offered him a comms unit. "I'll see him myself. This place stinks of napalm, I need some air."

"Thought you loved the smell of napalm in the morning, Tupe," the comms man cracked wise.

"Shut the fuck up, wiseass," grumbled Tupolev.

The pirate commander exited the bridge onto the dark deck of the base hovership. It was past midnight, some eight or nine hours left in the long Sanjivan night. The hovership, the airfield, and the camp were all set up on a giant, flat plateau in the middle of an even larger canyon, protected from high winds and perfect for landings and takeoffs. Eight four-man airskiff teams of raiders, four two-man airskiff teams, six airspeeder pilots, five flyer pilots, and seven hovership crewmen were all out here, mostly in lit prefab tents. Well, eight raider teams now.

There was a bunch of light and sound coming from the big tent; harsh music, rough laughter, some feminine cries. The maggots were a randy bunch, drinking and carrying on with the slaves at all hours. Almost every man had a personal concubine by now, and some had two; the raiders were under orders not to take any more slaves, as there were no more nerve collars to control them with. And Tupolev had no patience for the inevitable murder and escape attempts that would accompany uncollared slaves.

The big man took the ladder up the comms tower of the hovership, the external way to get there. He stopped before going in to the crow's nest, looking up at the sky. It was unusually clear tonight, he could actually see some stars amidst the flickering lightning clouds. There was a storm coming, but there was always a storm coming on this tantrum-throwing infant of a planet.

"Krebbs," said Tupolev, looking in the hatch of the radio shack. "Anything on the wire?"

"Nothing much, Tupe," said the bearded radioman, touching the side of his wire headset to mute it. It was very dark in this cabin, the way the owlish Krebbs preferred, lit only by the glowing instrument panels. "Three teams out raiding tonight, one jet on patrol, nothing happening."

"How's the swag?" said the commander, squeezing his huge body through the hatch and coming to stand hunched-over by the radioman's shoulder.

"No fuel. Lot of empty houses. Plenty of nice gear and shinies abandoned though, dirt-grubbers must be running scared and leaving their stuff."

"Not too fucking likely," Tupolev growled. "Get on the comrn. Message to all raiders. Possible covert hostiles in your area. Stay in radio contact at all times, minimum of two men together at all times even if somebody has to take a shit. Stay alert, use stims if necessary. And no fucking booze in the field! Message ends."

"We in trouble chief?" asked Krebbs as he typed out the message.

"Not yet," said Tupolev. He switched on an overhead panel, then touched his own wire headset to link up. "Get Petrov on the wire."

After a brief conversation with the comms officer of the sentinel station in high orbit above Threshold Colony, the station commander came on. His voice was hissy and staticky thanks to the radio-scrambling nature of Sanjiva's atmosphere, but he was still comprehensible thanks to the big signal booster mounted on the station.

"Petrov here. What is it?"

"Couple of things. But first, anything to report on your end?"

"Bit of meteor activity, otherwise all quiet out here. Our boys are looking forward to switching off with yours next week."

"Yeah, tell them to be careful what they wish for. Might be safer up with you guys right now."

"Search came up empty then?"

"We found Piotr's camp and vehicle, but no men. Place was overgrown with the same creepshow bullshit from Vern's site, but we're not sure if that's connected to whatever happened to them or just something that sprouts up afterwards."

"I'd think long and hard before I went to Aedon and blamed the bushes for the loss of your men, Tupe."

"If you saw the stuff, you wouldn't be calling it bush. But yeah, I don't think that has anything to do with it. Those guys are out there somewhere on foot, and something's stopping them from radioing in. Look, I can see stars if I look up right now, tell me the sky's clear enough for a sweep."

"What am I, a magician? No the sky ain't clear enough for a sweep! You know why? On this planet it's never clear enough for a sweep! How many times I gotta tell you? Besides, we're over the middle of the colony. Weren't your boys lost outside the borders?"

"It's the middle of the night, cool air and bright infrareds, and the sky's as clear as it's ever gonna be. Petrov, just give me a fucking sweep."

There was a pause. "Alright, but don't blame me for what you don't find on it. Send it to you in a couple of hours."

"Good. And speaking of Aedon, I want you to send him another comms buoy."

"Why the hell do you want to do that? We sent him one less than a week ago."

"Situation has changed. Boss needs to get back here right now. We're looking at a war with whoever's taken our boys, and we're gonna need him, and we're gonna need the Oscuro. It may well be time to pack up too, there's no more easy fuel to be had. So we might be looking at one last big raid to grease the remaining dirt-grubbers and take whatever's left."

"Well then," said Petrov mildly. "The only guy I got who can prep a hyper buoy also happens to be the only guy I got who can run a full sensor sweep. I'm guessing the buoy takes priority?"

"No shit," Tupolev grunted. "How soon can you have that buoy ready? The sooner we can…"

"Just a second," Petrov interrupted. There was the muffled sound of others speaking close to the station commander's headset. "How many? And no emissions? Alright, tell Stavros to…"

Suddenly there was a screeching yowl of static, and Tupolev winced and hit the mute on his headset.

"What the hell?" the commander snapped at the radioman. Krebbs swore, started working frantically.

"Son of a bitch! Transmission disrupted at the source! Hang on, I'm working on it!"

"Get him back, Krebbs," said Tupolev warningly. Krebbs pulled levers, turned dials, fiddled with touchpads. Several minutes passed.

"I'm trying to filter it out, but I'm not sure if they're still broadcasting. I'm not getting anything, Tupe," the radioman said helplessly.

"Try the squadron leaders, I think it's Stavros and Maccabe. No? Try any of the pilots! What the flying fuck is going on?" the big pirate raged.

"Ion storm? They've cut us off before," suggested Krebbs.

"Did that sound like an ion storm to you? Just turned itself on like a switch?"

Krebbs shrugged. "Weirder things have happened, chief."

"Just keep trying to raise them," the commander ordered. "If they're still alive, they'll be trying to raise us. Wire me the second you re-establish contact. Understood?"

"Got it!"

"Christ, this night is driving me batshit. I need a drink."

Tupolev squeezed out of the radio shack and went to the ladder leading to the deck. But he froze with his hand on the safety cover's handle. In the sky close to the eastern horizon, there was a bright flare of white light behind or within the cloud cover, lighting up a quarter of the sky. It lasted several long seconds before slowly fading away.

"What the hell kind of lightning…?" Tupolev wondered aloud. He stuck his head back in the radio shack.

"Krebbs? Did you just pick up anything?"

"No, but I stopped picking up something. That interference that drowned out Petrov? Gone. Now there's just nothing, on any channel. Still no response to my hails either. What happened? You look like you saw something."

"One fuck of a big lightning flash. I've seen bigger, but this one lasted a while without flickering and it was right over colony airspace."

"If there was something like the mother of all ion charge buildups, maybe that could cause the static we heard!" suggested Krebbs, thinking furiously. "And then it discharges with a big flash, maybe hitting the station and frying their comms! You think that fits, Tupe?"

"I think you're thinking too hard," said the commander dryly. "Keep trying to raise them, and stay on top of the raiders in the field."

Tupolev paused, a dark scowl on his broad face.

"Send another message to the raiders and the flyer. Watch for lifeboats coming down. If there was some kind of space disaster up there, we need to start looking for survivors."

"Holy shit!" said Krebbs, eyes widening. "You think… you think that… yes chief, will do!"

Grinding his teeth, the commander went back out to the ladder. But when he grasped the handle of the safety cover, a sudden flood of rage made him rip the cover clean out of its moorings with a metallic screech.

"_Fuck!_" he roared, flinging the twisted cover into the night. If his premonition was right and the sentinel station was out of commission, then he was cut off from Aedon right when he needed the psychotic bastard most.

Within the radio shack, Krebbs cringed as the booming echoes of Tupolev's voice faded. The chief was real scary when he was pissed, and right now he was _really_ pissed.

x x x x x

As Tupolev was heading to the big tent for his drink, he saw that something was going down. There was the sound of heated arguing, shadows pacing before the light shining on the wall of the tent. He quickened his pace.

Inside, several raiders were having an argument, Jacek standing next to a slave on her knees, Mengele and Jorg facing him from beside the bar. Everybody else, raiders and slaves, were around them watching on. Tupolev frowned at the kneeling slave. She was a hot nymphet wearing only a scarf with one long tail hanging down her back and the other between her perky breasts, pleasing to the eye and doubtless to the touch, but she wasn't wearing a nerve collar.

As the giant pirate approached, everyone looked to him and the argument stopped.

"Tupe! A little help here?" called out the weaselly-looking Jacek.

"A drink, now. Before I kill somebody," Tupolev said to the barkeep Marek, then looked to Jacek. "The hell is going on, Jacek? And why is that slave without a collar?"

"The collar's busted, Tupe," said the mustachioed Jorg, holding up a detached slave collar and a diagnostic tool.

"The little bitch was using her scarf to hide the red light on the collar," said Mengele in a malevolent hiss. "I saw it, and I found a shiv in the scarf when I checked her."

"I'll punish her real good, don't worry," said Jacek, speaking fast. "She didn't try nothing and she won't try nothing. Just leave her to me."

"No slaves without collars, you know the rule," rumbled Tupolev.

"She's a scag. If I'd tried to have some fun with her, I could have got a knife in my balls," spat Mengele. "Hull the little bitch."

"She's mine!" Jacek snarled. "Nobody's hulling my slave but me! And I can take care of her till she's fixed again!"

"She's a fucking scag, Jacek! She'll tear out your throat with her teeth if she has to!" Mengele retorted. "I don't care if she does, but I'm not letting her kill me with your gun!"

"Can the collar be fixed?" said Tupolev, silencing the argument with a raised hand.

"I don't know, I looked at it," said Jorg. "The actuator ain't responding, none of the inhibitors are talking to each other. I might be able to jury-rig something in a couple days, but it's iffy."

"See? Just a couple of days, what's the problem?" wheedled Jacek.

Tupolev unceremoniously shoved Jacek out of the way, and squatted before the slave in question. The young girl was demurely staring down at the ground. He took her chin between a beefy thumb and forefinger and lifted up her pretty pixie-face to look him in the eye. Her mouth was pressed tightly shut, quivering a little, and her large, alert eyes were smouldering with emotion: fear, rage, desperation. Tupolev sighed. What a waste.

In one smooth motion, the commander stood up, drew his heavy pistol and shot the slave between the eyes. As the gunshot rang out the other collared slaves watching on didn't even blink, their drugged eyes half-closed and serene.

"_No!_" Jacek shrieked as his concubine's body slumped to the ground. "Tupe… why… why'd you do that?"

"You'll thank me later, Jacek. She was a scag all right, she had smarts and spirit. Without a collar, sooner or later she would have found a way to kill you," Tupolev consoled the man. "You better get her to the sawbones while she's still warm, their organs are prime goods when they're that young."

"She was a virgin when I got her," mourned Jacek, kneeling before the slave's body and running a hand over her lithe curves. "Sweetest arse I ever seen. And the way she danced… goddamn it!"

"Quit your fucking whining," snapped Tupolev. "You got another slave just as pretty, go ride her for a while you blatting baby!"

Jacek gathered up the body and walked out, slaves started dancing and serving drinks again, and things settled down. Tupolev downed his drink and called for another.

"Rough night?" asked Marek, passing him another glass.

"If our luck doesn't change, if things keep going where I think they're going, we all got rough nights ahead," Tupolev said softly.

x x x x x

Over the course of a couple of hours, no contact was made with the orbital forces, no lifeboats were detected, and the raider teams found nothing worth reporting, hostile or otherwise. Tupolev called it a night, and went to his cabin on the foredeck for some shuteye.

He mounted his concubine twice to soothe his edgy nerves, and only then, finally, could he fall asleep. The slave had been some kind of terraforming scientist before she'd been collared, it was curious that she turned out to be such a good bedmate. He got a few good hours, then his wire headset sounded a chime from beside the bunk, and he slowly lifted his head off the woman's large pillowy breasts to look at it. The pirate sat up suddenly and snatched the headset, pressing the thin filaments into place around his face and along his jaw.

"Tupolev. This better be good," he said, slipping the earpieces into place.

"It's Krebbs, chief. Garth's team just found something you'll want to hear."

Tupolev turned on the light and reached for his clothes. "Link him to me."

"Merging channels now. Garth, Tupe's on the line now."

"Tupe, this is Garth. We're about a hundred klicks east-south-east of base camp."

"What did you find, Garth? Give me some good news, it's been nothing but crap all night long."

"Sorry chief, more bad news. We found Vern, or what's left of him. Looks like he was hiking back to base when somebody blew a hole in his chest the size of an artillery shell. He's been here a while, and the weird thing is, he's still got all his gear. Headset intact, beacon off. Guns ain't been fired, safeties still on. They must have caught him totally by surprise."

"Motherfucker," said Tupolev, softly and venomously. "Any tracks, spent shells, any goddamn clue in the area?"

"We haven't done a full search, but there's nothing obvious in the canyon except a collapsed cave, which don't look recent."

"Alright. Do an aerial search pattern of the area. If his team was ambushed and separated, their bodies wouldn't be far away."

"Okay Tupe. I'm on it."

"One more thing Garth. Be on your fucking toes. Vern and his boys were as good as any of us, what happened to him could happen to you. Watch your ass."

"Damn straight, chief! Eyes peeled and guns cocked! Garth out."

"Tupe, holy shit! Vern…" Krebbs started.

"I don't want to hear it, Krebbs!" Tupolev snapped. "Do your job and stay sharp, understood?"

"Yes chief!"

Hearing the anger in his voice, his concubine did as she was conditioned to do and tried to comfort him, silently putting her arms around his massive shoulders and rubbing her lush bare body against his back. Tupolev ignored her, and ran the Vern situation through his mind.

He was pretty damn sure Vern and his guys didn't just abandon a fully armed and fueled airskiff to hike a hundred klicks back to base on foot. But why would someone go through all the effort to kidnap four armed guys, then release them with all their gear, only to shoot them dead a little while later?

It didn't make any damned sense. If the other clan was going to kill them, then Garth should have found Vern all chopped up for his parts, yet Vern was out there rotting whole with all his healthy organs and skin wasted. The only rationale he could come up with was that Vern had escaped, possibly with the location of the enemy base, and his captors had deemed him too dangerous to reacquire. But if he was fleeing hostiles that he knew were out there, why did all his weapons have their safeties on? Why was his distress beacon off?

With an angered snarl, Tupolev broke out his weightlifting gear and ripped into some punishing sets. All this speculation was getting him nowhere. He needed more information, right now he and all the boys under him were literally shooting in the dark. Soon as the damn sun came up he could mount a real search, getting all the skiffs and flyers in on the action.

Now he had two raider teams missing, an entire space force gone silent, and one of his boys just turned up dead. He was going to find out whoever was responsible for this, one way or another. And then, they would pay. Nobody crossed the Shades and walked off with all their bones unbroken.

x x x x x

The long night was finally coming to an end. There was a rosy glow lighting up the eastern corner of the sky, and the winds were stilling. As Tupolev climbed the hovership's comm tower, he wondered if the day would bring any better fortune than the evil night that just passed.

He stuck his head into the radio shack's hatch. Krebbs was at his post, yawning and stretching in his chair as the end of his shift approached.

"Krebbs. Where the hell is Petrov?"

"Still not answering, chief. I hear anything from space, I call you so fast my fingers catch fire."

"You better. Anything else happening on the wire?"

"Not much," said the radioman. "The flyer pilot, Tosh, he said he thought he saw movement a couple times in the canyons outside the colony borders, but he never found nothing. And Goeth's team found some fuel cells, lucky bastards. That's about it."

"Movement? Tosh saw movement?" Tupolev squeezed fully inside the cabin. "What kind of movement?"

"Highspeed air displacement, like from a flying vehicle. Saw it on infrared, but couldn't pick it up when he came close. Want me to get him on the line?"

"No, let him do what he's doing. If it's anything, he'll catch it. What about these fuel cells, where did Goeth land those?"

"He said he found an airskiff just parked on the front lawn at a homestead, fully fueled with a spare! It's like they giftwrapped…"

"An airskiff? What kind of airskiff?" Tupolev interrupted, eyes widening. "Was the engine warm? Did he search the homestead?"

"He didn't say about any of that," said Krebbs, blinking away his sleepiness.

"Get Goeth on the line. Now," the commander ordered.

"Uh, he's not at his skiff, chief. Last I heard from him, his team was going to score some power cells from a solar tower down the canyon."

"The _whole team_ is away from the skiff?"

"It was a three-man job, and you said nobody goes without at least one partner," said Krebbs, shrugging. "So all four of them went."

"Son of a bitch." Tupolev clasped his forehead, shook his bald head. "I'll wait here. I want to talk to Goeth as soon as he gets back to his vehicle."

"You got it, Tupe."

The big pirate commander pulled up a stool and sat down, making the stool creak dangerously under his considerable bulk. Krebbs kept his eyes on his panel, occasionally making minor adjustments, while his boss looked on. Some time passed, and the day's light began to glow through the open hatch.

"That must be one fuck of a big solar tower for them to take this long," Tupolev growled.

"Goeth said he'd call in when he got back. I dunno what's keeping them."

"You sure you buzzed them?"

"This is what I do, chief. I buzzed them. They ain't answering."

"Buzz them again.

"Goeth, this is base, Goeth, this is base. If you're hearing this, pick up your receiver now, repeat, pick up your fucking receiver right now!" Krebbs spoke into his mic.

The two men waited a few more minutes, and Krebbs repeated his hail. Finally, Tupolev punched his palm and took action.

"Fuck it! Call whoever's closest, get them to check on Goeth and see what the fuck is keeping him!"

"That would be Tosh in the flyer, I'm on it," responded Krebbs. "Tosh, this is base, Tosh, this is base, respond."

"This is Tosh. I'm glad you called, I got a situation here."

"Go ahead Tosh," said Krebbs, while Tupolev leaned close.

"I been picking up radar echoes at long range over the eastern canyons close to the colony. They just come and go, I can't get a fix on it. If it ain't some kind of ghost in the sensor system then somebody's out there with a big highspeed flyer, coming up into radar range every now and then and then dropping back in the canyons. Request permission to pursue."

"Denied," said Tupolev, joining the channel. "One of our teams could be in trouble. I assume you're picking up Goeth's airskiff beacon? Go do a recon on them, find out their situation."

"Copy that, diverting from patrol route."

"Base out."

Krebbs terminated the connection, then looked to Tupolev.

"You're not sending him after the radar blip?"

"Krebbs, you're not getting paid to question my orders, clear?" said Tupolev menacingly, but then relented. "We took out all the colony aircraft and their means to build 'em years back. If they had flyers, we would know about it. And if it's the other clan, then it's the first time we've seen them on radar. It's most likely a ghost."

Krebbs nodded his understanding. A minute or so later, he perked up and raised a finger.

"Tosh, we're receiving you. Go ahead."

"Base, I see smoke coming out of the canyon where the beacon is. Lot of smoke, black. I'm reducing speed for a low altitude flyby."

A chill went through Tupolev. "Watch your ass, Tosh. Keep an eye open for anti-air weapons."

"Copy that, base! Defense systems on active, going weapons-hot!"

A long moment passed, then Tosh reported in: "I've spotted the solar tower. The bridge from tower to cliffside seems to be destroyed, but not giving off smoke. Source of smoke coming into view now. Appears to be an airskiff wreck, can't tell the type but about same mass as one of ours. Wait, I'm getting a ping from my nav system… yeah that's a confirm, Goeth's beacon signal is coming from that wreck. That's his airskiff burning down there."

"Fuck me," breathed Tupolev. "Tosh, stay in the area and search for survivors or hostiles. Krebbs, get Manske and Garth on the wire now!"

Krebbs operated instruments, spoke into his mic. Then he looked at Tupolev and nodded.

"Manske, it's Tupolev," said the commander into his headset. "You should be close to the east end of Charon canyon, right?"

"It's one turnoff away, Tupe."

"Get to Goeth's beacon. It looks like he went down hard, I want boots on the ground looking for survivors and hostiles."

"Holy shit, chief! I'm on it!"

"Garth, you should be closer to the middle of Charon, right?"

"Bit more westerly, but yeah."

"Goeth's last transmission said something about finding a fueled airskiff at some homestead. I want you to retrace his route, find that skiff, and search the homestead. Whoever was flying around last night has to be involved in Goeth's crash."

"I got it, Tupe!"

"Stay sharp both of you! We're coming in late to this fucking game, and the other guys have the edge on us. Go!"

"Roger that, Manske out!"

"We're on it, Garth out!"

Tupolev sat back. "One of those assholes better find something. I'm fucking sick of all this invisible assassin bullshit."

"Not so invisible any more," pointed out Krebbs. "Radar echoes, a crashed skiff instead of a vanished team, leaving one of their skiffs in the open? They're getting sloppy."

"Either that, or…" Tupolev paused, a new thought occurring to him.

"Or what chief?"

"Or it's not them," he said slowly. "Not the sneaks, not the colonists, but somebody else just come on the scene. If they took out the comms booster on the station and touched down last night, the space forces would have no way to warn us."

"No, they'd still have a way. They'd just have to send one of the shuttles or starfighters down to tell us in person."

Tupolev squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his fists on either side of his temples. "Unless… they were all dead."

"Oh fuck!" said Krebbs, eyes widening. "You think that's it Tupe? We got new hostiles that wiped out our entire space force?"

"Get me the airfield!" snapped Tupolev. "_Fuck me!_ I should have done this the second I lost contact with them!"

"This is Byron, go ahead Tupe," came the response from the camp airfield.

"Wake your people, Byron. I want every flyer and shuttle prepped and ready for combat by the end of the hour!" Tupolev ordered. "And get somebody into the ready shuttle for a space recon right fucking now!"

"Roger chief! But what are we looking for?"

"Our own forces. Go!"

Without waiting for the pilot to acknowledge, Tupolev pulled himself out of the hatch and flew down the ladder and into the bridge of the hovership. There was only one man on duty, everyone else was bedded down belowdecks.

"Get downstairs and wake everybody up!" the commander ordered the crewman. "I want this ship prepped and ready for combat maneuvers as soon as fucking possible! Why the hell are you still here?"

The crewman rushed off, and Tupolev went out to where his light one-man airspeeder bike was moored on the hovership's main deck. He released the vehicle, got on, and gunned the engine, taking off with a roar and zooming across the base camp. He flew back and forth over the tents, turbojets howling, till he was sure everyone was out of their tents and looking at him. Then he brought the bike to ground at the end of the encampment where he could see them all. He touched his headset.

"Listen up, Shades!" he barked. "Goeth's skiff just turned up crashed, so that's three teams missing now. I'm sick of this bullshit! We're going out there, object is to search under every rock and behind every cloud, find our missing people, and rip new assholes in whoever took 'em! All raiders, prep your vehicles and draw weapons and equipment for an air-to-ground raid! Team leaders, I want your asses in the base ship for a briefing in half an hour, and all of us will be in the air and out for blood in one hour! Go!"

"_Blood and Havoc!_" Somebody yelled the Shadow Hearts battlecry, and they all took it up, "_Havoc, Havoc, Bloody Havoc," _a howling, baying pack of wolves. It was music to Tupolev's ears. This planetside shift had been too long, good living was starting to make his boys soft. It was time to kick some doors and cut some veins.

Tupolev flew back over the camp, now buzzing with activity. The hovership was now a metre off the ground with all its weapon pods deployed, and he alighted on the deck and headed for the bridge.

Captain Jeriko spoke to him immediately. "What the hell's going on Tupe?"

"We're under attack," Tupolev growled. "If I'm right, we been under attack since midnight. We're going on the offensive starting now."

"Well it's about time, but where is our enemy?" Jeriko said pointedly. "Getting pissed at them ain't worth shit if we can't find them!"

"I'm starting to think it ain't the sneaks attacking us, at least not them alone," said Tupolev grimly. "There's somebody else, and they're leaving tracks. We'll know more in fifteen minutes. Get Krebbs on the line and put him on the intercom, I want us all to hear what's happening."

By the time the seven remaining raider team leaders and the airspeeder team boss showed up to the hovership bridge, Krebbs was relaying new information from the teams in the field. Tupolev waved the team leaders in; the bridge was a big room meant to hold many officers and observers.

"It's not looking like we can learn much from Goeth's skiff, everything including the pilot is burned and blown to teeny bits," Manske was saying. "Joel's telling me they found something up on the ridge though, I'm taking my skiff up to them. Okay, we're up… I see him… oh shit."

There was a long pause. The team leaders and bridge crew stared at the intercom speakers, and one could feel the tension in the room.

"Tupe, we just found Goeth, Dusk, and Vorstok. They're all dead."

There was an eruption of exclamations and curses from the men all around Tupolev. He impatiently held up his hand, and they were quiet again.

"Check them real close, Manske. Find out any goddamn clue you can," ordered the commander.

"Yeah… they ain't like Vern. They been half stripped… some of their gear and guns are missing but not all. There's ammo belts half-detached… buckles popped but not opened… looks like the killers got scared off halfway through the job."

"How did they die?" asked Tupolev, growing more impatient.

"Goeth and Vorstok got shot in the head with some kinda small arms… bullets are really small but really high powered, went straight through the skull… I dunno what the hell kinda gun did this chief, some custom job maybe. And Dusk got stabbed with one hell of a big knife, went right through him and came out his spine. I'd say a sword, like the boss' samurai sword. It was two headshots and one clean stab for three instant kills, these guys didn't miss. Ain't no amateurs did this Tupe, we got pros on our hands."

"And my guess is that Stagg made it to the skiff and took off, but got shot down by a vehicle or anti-air," said Tupolev, his voice low and grim. "What about the tower?"

"Nothing in it, but the bridge looks fucking melted, I dunno, napalm or a thermite grenade maybe. Pretty weird smell. Doesn't look like there's anything else here."

"Keep searching, and stay sharp. Call in the second you find anything, including a fight," ordered Tupolev.

"Understood, chief! Manske out."

Tupolev then turned to the assembled team leaders, who stood grim and attentive.

"At about midnight last night we lost contact with the space sentinel station in the middle of a radio exchange," Tupolev began the briefing. "Three hours later, Vern was found shot dead a hundred klicks east of here. It was an ambush, he never had a chance. Four hours after that, Goeth's team reported contact with a parked, fueled airskiff. We never got any other details about this skiff because shortly after that, we lost contact with Goeth. Our patrol flyer was diverted there, he reported patchy radar echoes and a smoke plume. Manske and Garth were sent in, and well, you just heard from Manske."

"I think that Goeth's whole team was wasted by a newcomer force, some new gang that wants in on our turf. I figure they took out the sentinel station's comms, maybe even the whole station and all the starships with it. That's how they landed without us knowing. I sent a shuttle up, we're gonna know any minute what's happened to the space force."

"Now I'm hoping the space recon and Garth's investigation are gonna turn up solid leads on where these bastards are at. But if we're still in the dark after, I intend to turn over every rock and every tree with pliers and tweezers till we find them! We will map every square metre between here and the Grand Chasm if we have to! That's what I got, any of you got anything better?"

Some of the raider leaders started talking quietly amongst each other, then the airspeeder team boss, Ganon, spoke up loud and clear.

"Tupe, sorry to say this, but you ain't got shit," said Ganon. "We don't know a damn thing about who we're up against, just radar ghosts, some mystery skiff, and a pile of bodies took out by somebody who knew what he was doing. We don't know anything about their location, their numbers or their capabilities, we could be up against some band of dickheads from the mid-rim or we could be facin' the goddamn Colonial Marines! Before we go off half-cocked, let me and my boys do some fast recons of all the trouble spots, and let the high flyers do their…"

A transmission came through the intercom, interrupting the speeder boss. It was hissy and staticky, but understandable.

"Base, this is Byron. Base, this is the space recon. Are you reading me?"

"Byron, this is Tupolev. You're signal is pissy, but we hear you," answered the pirate commander, holding up a placating hand to Ganon. "The hell are you doing up there instead of running my airfield?"

"This job looked damn important and I'm your best pilot, do the math. Okay, I'm past the stratosphere and well into space now, and it still sounds like we can hear each other fine. Fuckin' clear day for sure."

"Drop back into the atmosphere immediately if you lose our signal, understood? I want constant radio contact throughout your mission," Tupolev ordered.

"Understood, base. Well I'm less than two hundred klicks to the colony zenith and going at about Mach Three, the station and escorts should be coming into view any second."

"Try your radio. See if you can wire them," said Tupolev.

"Already done Tupe, I've been sending out the auto-hail as soon as I broke into space. So far no answer. Okay, I'm starting to see something…"

"What?" asked Tupolev worriedly when the pilot didn't respond for a few seconds. "What do you see?"

"Tupe, I… I'm seeing a debris field at the station's position."

There were gasps. Captain Jeriko swore softly.

"It's all small pieces, fragments are hitting the mag-screens now. Everything looks slagged. There's clusters of larger pieces further out, I'll be passing fairly close by one of them… yeah, looks like the chassis of a Navajo shuttle like mine. It's burnt out, I'm guessing plasma weapons. Tupe… I think our space force has been dusted."

"Go as deep into the field as you can. Look for lifeboats, exo-suits, any clue who did this and how," said Tupolev hoarsely.

"Okay, I'm reducing speed. Gimme some time to get deeper in and do some scans."

"Alright. Go."

Tupolev turned back to the pirate team leaders. His jaw was set. "Now we know. Somebody's hit us, hard. And by now they're somewhere planetside. You understand why I'm not willing to wait for more recons."

"Tupe, what if they got nukes?" said Olek, apparently recovered from his brush with stupidity. "What could take out the whole station and every ship around except maybe fucking battleship bombardment or nukes?"

"Yeah chief," said Molech, who had a background in space combat. "Kinetic and explosive weapons from snub fighters and even capital ships would still leave most of the station intact. It would be a waste of ammo to dust something that big, especially since it would be totally hulled just a little way through the bombard. To turn the whole thing into itty bitty slagged pieces, that really sounds like a fucking nuke."

"If we're up against nukes, I want to know about it," broke in Captain Jeriko. "You flyboys could potentially dodge the shockwave of a nuke blast, but this ship ain't got that kind of jet power."

"We need to know how they'll drop a nuke if they got 'em," said Tupolev. "We got massive anti-air, we could stop ballistic missiles or starfighters, but if they got capital ships then we got problems.

"Tupe, there's something else," said Lechner, swathed in ammo belts for his big machine gun. "You know Aedon's always going on about this other Company colony that's supposed to be here, the secret research base. What if the colonists found it? What if there were weapons, starfighters, silo-based nukes?"

"That's ridiculous," scoffed Mengele. "Boss is a great leader, but he got some crazy ideas. The abandoned top secret research base full of weapons and goodies? It's fucking Shangri-La."

"Boss might be half-crazy, but he's right so often that I don't laugh off anything he says," said Bors, the blade lover.

"No, still doesn't jive," said Orlos, the thoughtful one, the strategist. "The kills on the ground show a fuckload of skill. If the colony broads had anybody who could shoot like that, they wouldn't have waited till half their people were gone to use 'em. And for there to be a friendly unit of special forces frozen in this secret base, well it's a pretty long shot. I wouldn't rule out the colonists, but my money is on outsiders, spacers. And just so you know, Colonial Marines don't use swords."

"If Orlos thinks it's spacers, then I think it's spacers…" Tupolev started, but he was interrupted by the comms.

"Base, it's Garth. I think we found Goeth's mystery skiff," came from the radio.

"Talk to me, Garth," said Tupolev, impatience and caution warring in his voice.

"We're at an abandoned homestead in Charon canyon, the skiff is on the front landing. We're checking it now, but I can see just from looking at it that it's a colonial admin vehicle. We got the engine open now, and there's no fuel cell, although the fusion core is still hot. Ursa is checking the nav system. There's some kinda turret mount welded onto the back, but the gun's been taken. Nothing else I can see, I'm gonna check the house."

"Whoa, I got something on infrared!" radioed Garth a few seconds later. "Deep tracks in the grass from two other airskiffs. One almost next to the colonial skiff, one next to the house. First one's quad skids, like all our skiffs. I figure Goeth landed there. The other is double skids just like the colonial skiff, and looks more recent. A pickup maybe, my guess is that the skiff pilots hid in the house and got picked up by another of their vehicles after Goeth left."

"I'm in the house now… this place looks lived in. It's clean, tidy but not too tidy, no dust. Kid's toys here and there. There's breakfast leftovers on the kitchen table. Flapjacks are still soft, milk hasn't gone bad. Fridge is powered and loaded with good food. Nate's coming up from the basement, he says nobody's hiding down there, I'm guessing it'll be the same for upstairs. There were people here up till recent, Tupe. They cleared out and barely took anything."

"Ursa is coming in from outside. He's got the airskiff's flight plan on his pad. I'm uploading it to you now, but I can see just from looking at it that the skiff came from colony central and was making stops at homesteads before going back to central. There was a few more plans like this in the nav system, going to a few different homesteads and coming back each time. Tupe, it looks like…"

"An evacuation," Tupolev finished for him. He was looking at the uploaded nav maps on his own pad. "It started a couple hours past midnight. And I'll bet every hover vehicle they had took part in it. Finish your search Garth, and stay on station. The raid will be coming by there sometime soon and you'll merge with us then."

"Blood and Havoc, chief. Garth out."

Tupolev looked at the team leaders. The big pirate's dark eyes were blazing.

"Why the fuck would the colonists be evacuating?" asked Olek, but by the tone of his voice, the gears in his head were turning.

"You know why, dumbass," said Mengele, softly. "They know they got hell to pay. They know we're coming."

"We don't know for sure that the colonists are involved with any newcomers," cautioned Ganon half-heartedly.

"They started evacuating right after our space fleet got dusted," gritted Molech. "They knew it happened. That means they know who did it."

"Looks like we just got a target for…" Tupolev began, but was interrupted again by the comms.

"This is Byron! Do you copy base?" hissed from the speakers. By Byron's voice, he was plainly agitated.

"We read you Byron. What's happening?" the commander answered.

"I got a radar contact coming in fast! I thought he was just another bit of debris till I saw where he was coming from… Oh shit, he's targeting me! I gotta engage, I'm a sitting duck up here!"

"Go! Take him out!" Tupolev barked.

"Fuck, he got a lock on me first! Missiles incoming! Unnhh!" Cockpit warning alarms came through the radio, along with the pilot's grunts and gasps as he was crushed into his chair by heavy acceleration. Everybody in the room stared at the comm speakers, rapt in the life and death struggle they were hearing.

"Dodged 'em! I got you… I got you motherfucker!" the pilot panted. "I'm on his tail! Civilian model… Heavily armed… Almost got a lock on him… Almost there… Fuck, this asshole is fast! Come on dammit, lock him…"

"Come on Byron! Get the fucker!" Tupolev hissed. The team leaders and bridge crew were mouthing similar, useless words of encouragement.

"Launching! Oh yeah, missiles tracking! What… what the fuck? How did he… Oh shit! _Oh shit!_" Byron shrieked. There was a staticky roar from the speakers, the unmistakable sound of tearing metal. Everyone in the room flinched.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck! I'm hit! My whole board is going red! Lost hydraulics… lost weapons… lost steering thrusters!"

"Get out of there! Eject!" Tupolev bellowed into the radio.

"My ejector's busted! I can't get out! He… he's hulled me! Tupe… _he came from the colony!_"

There was a brief screech of sharp static, cutting off Byron's last scream. Then the comms went silent. Dead silent.

"I… I'm sorry chief… signal stopped. He's gone," said Krebb's numb, stunned voice.

"The colony has starfighters," said Tupolev, softly. Then in a roar of intense rage: "_They have fucking starfighters!_"

The radio receiver splintered into plastic and metal fragments inside his crushing grip.

"They're gonna pay for this, Tupolev," said Captain Jeriko in a thick growl. "All of them. The colonials will pay for this. We will visit Bloody Havoc upon them."

Tupolev whirled to face the team leaders, who were standing to a man with clenched fists and furious eyes. "Shades! Rejigger your skiff loadout for air-to-air! I hope to God they try sending their starfighters against us now. We're gonna have us a little chat with the colony, and somebody is gonna die real slow. Blood and Havoc! Go!"

"_Havoc! Havoc!_" cried the team leaders, raising their fists. The Shadow Hearts were coming, and let all who opposed them tremble.

x x x x x

_**Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," central colony complex  
Level 5 North: improvised training room in conference hall 5A**_

"This is the M41A pulse rifle," Piers Pappagallo said loudly, pointing to the military rifle on the table before him for the fifty or so of the colonial women watching on. "Full automatic, explosive-tip rounds, with an over-and-under pump-action grenade launcher. We have thirty of these for you, each with a full magazine of ninety-five explosive-tip rounds and one high explosive grenade.

"This is the M4A3 standard service pistol," he indicated another weapon on the table. "Semi-automatic, light recoil, with sabot rounds that give it good range and stopping power. We have fifty of these for you, each with at least two magazines of fourteen rounds."

"This is the M61A masking smoke grenade," he pointed to a finger-sized green tube with a white cap. "Thirty millimeter, can be hand-thrown or launched from the pulse rifle. It gives off blinding, infra-red blocking smoke that covers a very wide area and disperses very slowly. Everyone's going to have at least two of these."

"And this is the F228 thermographic visor," he pointed to a pair of goggles. "Effective for nightvision and poor visibility, designed specifically to penetrate the smoke from the M61A grenade."

"These tools, along with whatever small arms you can muster, will be the key to our victory today," he concluded, and Tristan O'Hara broke in: "And we're going to show y'all exactly how to use them."

"Let's start with the smoke grenade. Somebody smoked me with these once and it ain't fun, I tell you." Harry winked and pointed to Pops with a not-so-surreptitious finger under his arm, drawing smiles from the onlookers. Pappagallo allowed Harry to take over. He wanted to check in with the others, see how the preparations were coming.

Kano first. Their ace pilot was taking a shift in the sky while Harry helped instruct the last batch of volunteers. Pappagallo stepped out of the room and touched his headset, which relayed its signal through the radio booster on his ship.

"_Gunstar_, Pops. What's your status, what's the situation with the dropship?"

"Pappagallo, from _Gunstar_. Target destroyed, and I am undamaged," Nikola Kano answered. "But I don't think I stopped him from contacting the ground force. I'm seeing significant activity down there, lot of engines warming up."

"Here they come," Pappagallo said, his voice turning grim. "Take them three, four hours you think?"

"At least three at that distance," Kano estimated. "Our preparations must be completed within that time."

"At least it took them a fair bit longer to catch on than we thought. Hope it's enough."

"It will be enough," Kano said before Pops signed off. "We shall not fail."

Pops checked in with Amon Pistor next, who was working in the vehicle bay.

"Pistor, it's Pops. How's the work coming?"

"Pops. I've got half a dozen skiffs modified so far. It's tricky work, I don't want to leave any leads unconnected or the whole optic systems will go if the thermals fail."

"How much more can you get done in three hours?"

"The raiders are on their way?" Pistor asked, but it wasn't really a question. "I can get at least two done, maybe three."

"Good. And how are you holding up?" Pops was concerned about the man. Something had happened on Pistor's last shift of the evacuation, something that had left him very shaky for a while, but he would only say something about 'seeing things'.

"I'm rock solid, Pops," Pistor answered firmly. "I'm doing fine now, don't worry about me."

"Stay that way," Pappagallo ordered. "And assign yourself a non-combat role immediately if you start having problems again. You are _not_ going to endanger yourself or your allies in the upcoming engagement, clear?"

"Crystal. I won't let you down, Pappagallo."

"I know you won't. Keep at it. Pops out."

Hans Brinnlitz next. True to his word, he was playing very nicely with the colonists. The man could be a very charismatic leader when he chose to bother.

"Brinnlitz, Pops. What's the word?"

"The word is good, old man," Brinnlitz answered, from outside the tower. "These ladies work fast, and hard. I imagine all the nets will be up in an hour, and one more to get all the combat volunteers in good positions. Half that if we rush. When am I getting the rest of my volunteers?"

"Give us another hour. Better put a rush on it Brinnlitz, the raiders are on the move. Could be here as soon as three hours."

"Don't worry, old man. We'll be done on time. Just get the rest of my volunteers armed and trained."

"Roger that. Pops out."

Finally, Dameon Aedon, whom he'd assigned the simplest job alongside Jack.

"Aedon, Pops. How's our surprise coming?"

"Jack is a miracle worker, Pops," Aedon gushed. "He's almost got the whole control room wired, and he's got all our camera sticks ready for pickup. It's amazing! We could be in our pilot's seats while we do this! Well, we could nay move around if we did that. Next to our pilot's seats, perchance."

"You figured out what you're wearing? We don't want them recognizing you."

"I have it figured out indeed. I can do a hoarse scratchy voice too, that should throw them off. I can only hope they don't decide to meet elsewhere, after all our work in the control room. That would blow the big one."

"They've never called for a meeting anywhere else. I don't figure them to change now."

"Well, we'll be ready for them when they come!"

"Good, because they're coming. Little less than three hours at minimum. Be ready. Pops out."

"Bring them on, I say! Aedon out."

Pappagallo moved back into the training room, front and center, and held up a hand. Harry ceased his instruction and all eyes turned to Pops. Director Anemona Sagan's eyes were among them; after organizing the last of the preparations, she had signed herself up for combat duty.

"Minutes ago, a raider dropship left atmosphere and discovered the wreckage of the space force we destroyed on the way here," Pops addressed everyone. "We destroyed this craft as well, but not before it signaled the planetside raider force. They are now on the move, and we must assume they are coming here."

Even though they were all expecting this on some level, worried murmurs ran through the trainees.

"But we are not ready! If they come now…" said a dark-haired woman, who was staring at Pops with horrified eyes.

"They are a long way from here, and they are not likely to split up their forces and send their faster units ahead, now that they know we have fast attack fighters of our own." Pappagallo soothed the woman.

"We have time to finish our preparations, and we have something else: _surprise_." The tall merc's eyes turned intense, and his deep voice took on a tinge of dark anticipation. "If those men come here with no idea of the reception we have waiting for them, I promise you we'll all teach them something about the price of fuel."

x x x x x

_**Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," Keller-Bravo Canyon approaching central community district  
Aerial assault fleet of the "Shadow Hearts" space raider clan, raid in progress**_

Five four-man airskiffs, four two-man skiffs, seven airspeeder bikes including Tupolev's, and three jetflyers all roared through the largest of the many canyons that intersected with Threshold's central district. The base hovership, escorted by the last remaining shuttle, was trundling along far behind; by the time they got here though, there really wouldn't be much for them to do besides repairs and storing the swag.

There was another building complex of some kind coming up in the right wall of the canyon. Tupolev tolerantly stopped the forward progression of the raid and allowed his men some time to circle, dive-bomb, and blast the shit out of the place until it was burning rubble. As far as he could tell, there wasn't anybody in any of these buildings along the way, but the boys needed to kill something while laughing and howling battlecries, so he let them have their head and turn every significant structure on the way to smoking ruins. It turned a two or three hour trip into four hours with change, but it was damn entertaining at least.

"Sagan!" he snarled into the radio as he approached central, using the colonial main band. "I'm coming for a talk! If you're not in your control room in twenty minutes, every woman and child left of you is going to regret it!"

"I'll be there, commander," said the colony director, in oddly calm tones. Tupolev narrowed his eyes. He intended to make every remaining woman and child regret this day regardless, but the usual fear was absent from the old hag's voice.

When the canyon opened out to the central headquarters enclosure, the raid leader yanked on the reins. He slowed his bike to a crawl, and the whole raid slowed behind him. He'd been noticing several pairs of what looked like construction winches on either side of the canyon, as if to raise facing flags. When he inspected a pair of them at lower speed, he saw that there was a rope line between the bottoms of the winches, hidden in the foliage at the bottom of the canyon. Now that he was looking, he realized that his raid was being watched; there were colonists hiding on the side platforms and in the foliage, pointing weapons, radioing ahead.

"You see this, Shades?" Tupolev addressed his raid through his headset. "They're setting a trap. They're trying to catch a tiger with a fucking rabbit snare!" There was hooting laughter, colourful swearing. "Let's not disappoint them, shall we? Flyers and speeders, go!"

Leaving the slower skiffs in the relative safety of the canyon, the faster vehicles of the raid moved into the enclosure. The colonists had deliberately carved out their central command building "Nirvana Tower" at a nexus of many canyons, like the center of a spiderweb, and the monolithic natural stone pillar was surrounded by a wide open circular space. Coasting on hoverjets, the three flyers leisurely ascended, circling the tower. The seven speeders swooped around the enclosure at lower altitudes, looking for trouble and not finding it. The colossal doors of the main vehicle bay were closed, a position that Tupolev had never seen them in before. When the flyers reached the docking level at the top of the tower, they reported all hanger doors closed and impenetrable to their scans. Tupolev grew impatient.

"Ganon! With me!" he barked, and gunned the engine of his bike straight up the tower toward the control room. Fuck the elevator. He wasn't going to make it so easy for them.

Flying up the side of the tower, the view was as if crossing a stone bridge suspended in the sky. The plexiglass dome that was the control room's observation port raced toward him; he pressed his thumbstick and fired a rocket grenade, smashing the observation dome to fragments. He pulled off, flying upside down away from the tower to avoid the shower of plexiglass shards, and he decelerated as he looped around, coasting smoothly into the hole. Ganon was right behind him.

The big control room was empty, nobody at the rows of consoles, nobody on the observation stage, nobody at the desks. No, not quite empty: there was a man sitting at the director's desk, quite calmly despite the explosion and the winds gusting into the room. He rose to his feet as Tupolev and Ganon touched down on the stage and Tupolev stared him down, which he returned.

The tall man had on a spacer's flight jumpsuit, lined with safety gear and nozzles for hoses. He also had on a large pistol on a gunbelt and a worn cap with a symbol of the American space navy. There was a strange glimmer about him, as though there was a soft light shining on him from somewhere behind. He had a hard face and deathly ice-blue eyes, killer's eyes. Eyes much like the black orbs in Tupolev's own skull. He was obviously not a colonist. He was a spacer, and by that tan he was probably out of Cygnus Alpha. That meant he was a freelancer, a hired gun. A mercenary.

"I should have guessed," said the giant pirate leader, his deep voice going soft and contemplative. "When our space force went silent, I should have guessed. Tell me, how many of you did they hire?"

"Enough, I reckon." Another man said this, stepping in from the director's office behind the tall man. This new fellow was blonde and boyish, also in a flight suit and gunbelt, also with that odd glow about him, and wearing a cowboy hat on his head.

Tupolev looked around more carefully and realized there were two others in the room now. How had he missed them? There was another man in a flight suit with a gun belt for dual pistols, his face as calm as if he was high on somaline. He stood still as a statue beside a bank of monitors. The fourth was a giant taller even than Tupolev, standing in a corner partly obscured by consoles and instruments. He was clad in makeshift, patchwork junk armour, head to toe, with claws out of the tips of his gauntlets. Both of them had that peculiar lighting effect on them too, and the big pirate realized that something was off about all the lighting in the room. Damage from his entrance? Or some trick?

"I noticed the nets set up at the entrances," said Tupolev, looking from one man to the other. "You were wise not to spring them. They would not have kept us out."

"They are there to keep you in," said the tall cold-eyed one, in a voice that was as cold as his gaze.

Tupolev looked at the tall man, started to smile. He was starting to enjoy this. He made a beckoning gesture to Ganon, who whispered "Raiders, move in!" into his headset. The leader looked back out the window, where his airskiff teams were now beginning to encircle the tower, and returned his gaze to the tall spacer.

"Hear that, Ganon?" Tupolev boomed, without looking at his subordinate. "We're trapped! All fifty of us! By these three! Or what is it, four? They couldn't hire no more than four."

"Business is slow these days," said a short, serious-faced man in a waistcoat and gunbelt, standing up from behind a console, with that faint light playing around him. "Freelancers come cheaper by the bunch."

"Oho. Five!" proclaimed Tupolev. "Even five wouldn't be much trouble for us, I'm afraid."

"Needn't be any trouble at all, if you ride on," said the tall man.

"What? Ride on?"

"Gather up your gear and your spoils. Take a ride on your bike past the Chasm. Don't come back." The entire preposterous suggestion was made evenly and calmly as if discussing the weather.

"Ride on," purred Tupolev, as if actually considering it. "Yeah, I'd like to get away from it all. But you see, this is a fuel-producing colony, and it's my job to get fuel. And when our ships come back, which they will very soon, they will need fuel to move on. How else am I supposed to get fuel for our ships?"

"Buy it or mine it!" snapped a young man with long black hair, with heavy goggles over a piloting balaclava partially obscuring his face, faintly glimmering as he stalked in from an office door at the far side of the room.

"You could even try working for it," said a black man in black clothes, swiveling around in a big chair and putting his crossed feet up on the console. He seemed amused beyond words by this whole proceeding.

"So it's seven now?" mused Tupolev, slowly turning his gaze from one side of the room to the other. "You know, somehow I don't think your fucking lame-ass suggestions will solve my problem."

"Solving your problems isn't our business," said the tall man.

"We deal in lead, buddy. That's our business," said the one in the cowboy hat, smiling, but without warmth or humour.

"So do I, 'buddy,' so do I," Tupolev addressed the cowboy. "Seems we're in the same business."

"Ah, only as competitors, I fear," said the black man with seemingly genuine sorrow, waggling a finger.

"Why not as partners?" suggested Tupolev amicably. "We can still avoid trouble if we partner up. I'm feeling strangely generous. I offer you ten fusion cells each, Sagan couldn't have offered more than one or two. And you'll get a share of any cells, food or gear that we loot from the colony."

"And the colonists? The ones you're starving? What do they get?" retorted the young one, obviously angry.

Tupolev sat up straight on his bike's seat, stared coldly at the lad. "They get what we leave them. Men in our business don't mine and don't farm, so fuck them. They live for one purpose and one purpose alone! To make things, for us! Payment or swag, that's all we can get from them. You wear a flight suit, boy. But what kind of spacer asks a question like that? If God didn't want them sheared, he would not have made them sheep!"

The line about God and sheep was a favourite of Aedon's, which he usually said in good humour. Here, Tupolev was shouting by this point, which was by all accounts a very intimidating thing to witness. But these seven didn't bat an eyelid.

"My patience is running out," said Tupolev in a more calm manner, addressing the tall man again, who was obviously the mercenary leader. "You can throw away your lives fighting us, or you can join us and walk out of here rich. What do you say?"

"Ride on," said the tall man, with the voice of finality. The two big, imposing men stared at each other a long moment, staring each other down.

"You hear that Ganon?" said Tupolev evenly, still gazing at the tall one. "You hear what he said? Ride on, he said. _To me!_" His calm words suddenly rose to a bellow, and he pounded his fist into his chest.

"See, there's another problem," he said, his voice calm again but venomous. "I've got fifty men with obscene amounts of firepower surrounding this place, and they're howling for blood for all their brothers you dusted up in space. If you had come peaceable, maybe I could have appeased them by stringing up just one or two of you. But now you've made me angry, and that means all of you are going to die screaming. You shouldn't have all come to meet me, because now I know there's only seven of you, and it takes all the fun out of it when you know you outnumber the other side seven to one."

"How do you know there's only seven of us?" asked the tall man casually. "What if there's eight?"

An office door opened and another man walked in, wearing an archaic flight suit and silver sunglasses, who folded his arms.

"Or nine?"

Another man came in after the man in sunglasses, this one a heavily muscled black man wearing a mohawk and dozens of gold neck chains, wielding a military rifle.

"Or twelve?"

Three more men entered from different doors, with distinctive dress and body language, and took up position.

"Or _fifty?_"

Now there were men coming in from every door and popping up from behind every console, all with that odd little shine about them. Tupolev surveyed this fighting force and narrowed his eyes. Ganon clenched his teeth and rubbed his thumb over his bike's weapon trigger.

"Generosity!" said Tupolev loudly, waving his arm in a magnanimous gesture to all the men before settling his hand back on the handlebar. "That was my big mistake. I leave these fucking people a little extra fuel, and they hire all you men to make trouble. Making swords out of ploughshares, that's what the boss would say. Guess it just goes to show, you gotta pay for every good deed!"

Tupolev thumbed his trigger. His bike launched a rocket grenade at the tall man, and Ganon followed suit a fraction of a second later. The pirate leader threw up an arm to guard his face as the twin explosions rocked the room. Half the room lights were shattered, leaving one side of the room in relative darkness.

When Tupolev looked again, ready to shoot some more, he saw an amazing sight. Every one of the fifty men were standing still in exactly the same position. Some of them had debris sticking through their bodies. The men on the darkened side of the room were still lit with the same level of brightness, which meant they were now glowing ghosts in the dark. Near the twin craters, the men were flickering like staticky monitor images as smoke diffused through them. Tupolev's eyes widened. _Holograms!_

"Go!" he yelled at Ganon, and hit reverse on his bike, abruptly zooming backward out of the room. One of the holograms wasn't a hologram: there was a sharp crack, and Tupolev felt a bullet graze his arm, tearing a chunk out of his meaty bicep.

The airspeeder team boss had chosen to swivel his bike around and fly forward out the exit, strafing the phantom army with machinegun fire as he went. He chose poorly; the side of his helmet exploded from a high-powered bullet just as he hit the accelerator, and he slumped as his bike nosedived out the hole toward the canyon floor.

Back in the control room, the man in black, Hans Brinnlitz, stepped through a cluster of holograms to look out the shattered observation port. He reloaded his long rifle.

"Ah, such a pity," the sniper lamented. "Only one out of two. I should have shot the big one while he was still flapping his jaw."

As he was laying down to aim his rifle out the broken observation port, Brinnlitz heard Piers Pappagallo radio out: "Now! Smoke 'em!" The images of the other six mercenaries had run off to the side and vanished, as if running off the edge of the screen. The mercs had been using Jack's miraculous holo camera sticks to transmit their images from their battle stations, and it took just seconds for them to get combat ready. The battle for the fate of Threshold was about to commence.

Outside, clusters of thick white smoke were blooming as smoke grenades were set off. In the central tower and in the walls of the enclosure, dozens of colonists twisted the cap and tossed grenade after finger-sized grenade into the compound, and the entire enclosure and much of the canyons were soon completely filled. The raiders touched their wire headsets to lower viewing filaments over their eyes, but they were stymied; the smoke refracted and blocked infrared too, making the vision mode useless. Then the colonists, armed with simple heat-filter ultraviolet goggles, pulse rifles and pistols from Pappagallo's armory, all opened fire on the pirates.

"Tupe! We're fucking blind over here! Infrared's useless in this shit!" the raider Lechner shouted into his radio, and several other panicky team leaders confirmed the same state.

"We can't fire the Vipers without a lock! We can't even dumb-fire them!" Molech exclaimed in horrified realization. The seeker missiles, their most deadly weapons, were useless.

"Oh fuck me! I'm taking heavy fire! _They can see us!_" screamed Olek, ducking down as concentrated small arms fire peppered his vehicle.

"They're all around us Tupe! What the hell do we do?" snarled Manske, desperation warring with rage in his voice.

"Don't hold still you idiots! Keep moving!" Tupolev roared, and he hit his own accelerator as a shot hissed perilously close by his ear.

The pirates had never really known fear before. All their infrequent battles had been glorious orgies of sadism and destruction up till now, and only their prey had been afraid. But now, crippled by a haze of impenetrable smoke, facing determined resistance from their former prey, fearless men tasted fear for the first time. They didn't like it one bit. And the battle had only just begun.

Moments after the colonists opened fire, the massive vehicle bay doors of Nirvana Tower started opening, and those airskiffs that the colonists had time to outfit with thermographic view filters roared out, hunting the blinded pirates. The diminutive Amon Pistor was on one such airskiff, manning the rear turret while his partner Gina Gerhardt piloted, and a couple of colonist volunteers covered the sides with shotguns. Young Dameon Aedon was also out here, manning the smartgun turrent of Piers Pappagallo's military air rover, with Brigid Wulcan at the stick. And big Jack was out here too, standing tall on an airskiff piloted and manned by gun-wielding colonists, not bothering with the skiff's turret but using his own shoulder-mounted weapon.

"Confirm your targets and watch your fire!" Pistor signaled the force. "There are a lot of friendlies in the combat zone, don't shoot your allies!"

"Hell yeah!" Wulcan hollered through the radio. "You girls heard the man! Don't fuckin' shoot each other! That especially goes for you, smartgun boy!"

"Milady, I wouldn't dream of it," said Aedon gallantly, and he took aim at a swooping airspeeder. There were a lot of hostiles to choose from, and not a lot of ammo.

Jack said nothing, just watched through her visor as her targeting system painted red triangles on every male dirtling not wearing the thick eye coverings. Though she was impatient to return to her research, surprisingly she was enjoying the prospect of this fight. Perhaps it was the old battle-lust, the killing instinct of a predatory species. But she felt it was more than that. She was fighting for dirtlings that had defied their caste, rebelled against their societal roles to do what was necessary, regardless of honour or shame. Just like Jack. And these dirtlings were females, rebelling against the role of females, fighting against males of their own kind that showed them no respect. Again, just like Jack. She felt a kinship with these dirtlings, a sisterhood across species. And she would enjoy hunting those who would harm her sisters.

The three mercenary-manned skiffs were the only ones with gunners skilled enough to score hits on the speedy raider vehicles, but the other colonial skiffs were doing a good job of chasing the pirates around and keeping them off-balance. At sporadic intervals, a harsh whipcrack sound rang out as an advanced plasmacaster fired with merciless precision, and with every whipcrack, more pirates died. Pirate leader Molech flinched as a bolt of searing blue fire swerved in the air to kill the man beside him, despite their pilot's best efforts to dodge. He stared in disbelief at his teammate, who had a dinner plate sized hole burned clean through his chest and out the back. The colonists had energy weapons? Weapons that could maneuver in the air? How was this possible?

Tupolev had been joined by two marauding airspeeder bikes, and the three of them circled an unseen colonial airskiff and fired at the turret's muzzle flash until the skiff caught fire and plunged down to the ground. The commander looked up at the tower and the canyon walls, turning one way then the next, and everywhere he looked he saw the flickering lights of muzzle flashes through the fog, of colonists all around him pouring fire into the circular compound. The colonials were literally shooting fish in a giant barrel. With the unforeseen addition of the blinding smoke, the dirt-grubber trap had turned deadly. He needed to get on top of this situation and fast.

"Raiders! Keep moving and target the gun flashes!" he hollered into his headset. "And somebody get down there and storm the tower! I want the old bitch's head for this! Flyers, get up out of the smoke and start strafing the walls! Hold together, maggots!"

Two raider skiffs managed to evade the colonial skiffs and get inside the vehicle bay. The pirate passengers jumped off and rushed up the ramp, but they found an unpleasant surprise waiting for them at the top. A hasty barricade of hoverskiff frames had been built around the elevators, and Piers Pappagallo himself stood behind it with his heavy pistol. Standing with him were a dozen volunteers with pistols, pulse rifles and shotguns, while an auto-firing robotic smartgun tripod stood at either end.

The raiders dived for cover as the colonials unleashed a withering barrage of armour-piercing firepower against them, and they were barely able to fire a shot in retaliation. Two of the raiders tried to toss grenades over the barricade, and one of the throwers lost an arm for his trouble, but the movement-tracking autoguns destroyed one grenade midair, and the only Arcturan amongst the colonists snatched the other out of the air and tossed it away. The two pirate skiffs charged the barricade, heavy machineguns blazing, and one of the smartgun tripods fell in a shower of sparks and shrapnel. But the colonists concentrated their fire on one skiff and managed to kill the pilot, bringing the skiff crashing down to the floor, while Pops fired a contact grenade out of his pistol's undermounted launcher and hit the other skiff in the nose, sending it spinning back toward the bay doors where the pilot somehow regained control and decided he wanted no further part in this. The remaining pirates on the ground had no stomach for this kind of fight and soon retreated to the surviving skiff with all due haste, losing many of their number in the process.

Pops watched the raiders depart, and he holstered his pistol, adjusted his navy cap. _Amateurs,_ he thought disgustedly. _They can dish it out to defenseless common folk, but give a little back and they fold like a house of cards._

His boss, Director Anemona Sagan, and his sub-boss, the Arcturan beauty Eve Owan, were among those who'd volunteered to hold the tower entrance with him. Sagan met his eye as he looked to her, and he touched his cap-brim to salute her, which provoked a brief, faint smile. He felt Eve's delicate long-fingered hand slip inside his other hand, and he looked down at her sharply. She was breaking his rules about improper conduct with an employee again.

"We held them off. Our effort was sufficient," she said, smiling radiantly up at him, and she clasped his big callused hand in both of hers. She had insisted on sticking with a tranq pistol as her only weapon, and he saw it laying empty on the barricade now. Pops had been about to pull his hand away, but somehow, he just couldn't, and he allowed Eve's soft warm hands to enfold his. _She deserves a little warmth right now_, he figured. _She did good. They all did, all of these brave quick-trained women. Now it's up to everyone else to do the same._

Meanwhile, the hangar doors high above had opened in concert with the vehicle bay doors, and Tristan O'Hara's and Nikola Kano's starfighters flew out to engage the pirate jetflyers that had risen to escape the smoke. The flyers had just started shooting up the walls of the compound with their machinegun cannons, and they boosted straight up and out of the enclosure when they realized they were being targeted with missiles. In a stunning display of lightning-fast reflexes, Kano fired his plasma guns and blasted one of the flyers apart at the instant it flew up past his ship's nose, sending burning fragments fountaining up into the sky. Then he and Harry rocketed off in pursuit of the two remaining jets.

"Hey Kano," Harry radioed to his wingmate as they closed on their enemies. "Leave some for me this time, will ya?"

Harry thought he heard the faintest expulsion of breath over the open line, and he smiled despite the fearsome tension and adrenaline running through him. Was that Kano's version of a chuckle? Was the dispassionate combat master finally warming to him?

The pirate flyers were designed to function exclusively in atmosphere and as such were more maneuverable than starfighters, but despite this, try as they might, the raider pilots could not outmaneuver the implacable hunters on their tails. Harry and Kano inexorably locked their weapon systems on the raider flyers and launched missiles; Harry scored a hit and the enemy pilot successfully ejected as his flaming jet plummeted to earth, while Kano's target ducked into the canyons and managed to evade. At this point the chase had gone some distance from the colony center, and the one remaining flyer looked very much like it had no intention to make further trouble, so the two mercenary starfighters turned about to return.

"Lawks-a-mercy, did I just witness you missing a shot?" Harry teased the older pilot. "I thought you never missed, brother!"

"Nobody's perfect," Kano responded mildly, another first for him, causing Harry to almost fall out of his acceleration couch.

Back at Nirvana Tower, casualties mounted as the pirate raid was attacked on all sides by enemies they couldn't see but who could see them, and they were completely without air support. The raid was heavily armed with anti-air seeker missiles, but these also used infrared for their camera-guided targeting systems and were as blind as the pirates themselves. The raiders lashed out, firing blindly on their attackers with their machineguns and grenades, killing some of them. But after a few minutes of this slaughter, raid leader Tupolev had had enough.

His gang had fought spaceship crews, planetside security forces, even brushes with local police. But never military. Fighting the military was always a losing game. And all of a sudden, this dirt-grubber fracas felt very much like they had stepped into an all-out military ambush. Tactics, timing, weapons, the works. Tupolev's boys were falling all around him, dropping like flies. Vengeance for the fallen wasn't worth all the lives of the living. He screamed into his headset: "Break off! Fall back to the base ship! Retreat all units! Go!"

The pirates blindly probed the outer walls of the enclosure till they found the western canyons, and they fled. Then the fishing nets went up, at various heights throughout the canyon entrances. The retreating pirates couldn't see them through the smoke and flew right into the nets, and while they tore easily from the speeding raider vehicles, more often than not the raiders would lose control and go spiraling to the grassy floor. And more colonial women with goggles and small arms were waiting for them there.

Biologist Bettina Kupfer and astrophysicist Heidi van Vehmendal were two such colonists waiting by the nets along with a handful of other women in their group. When a raider skiff skidded to a halt mostly intact among the fern-grass, the two friends looked at each other fearfully for a moment, then hefted their weapons and ran toward the skiff with their companions running beside. Through their goggles, they saw the glowing outlines of the dazed and injured pirates picking themselves up and stumbling out of their wrecked vehicle; together, as they had been instructed, the five colonials slowed to a measured walk and raised their weapons to aiming position.

"For Threshold!" Kupfer exclaimed, and she opened fire. The five women cried out together, screeching like banshees as they rained bullets on the fog-blinded men. The pirates dropped to a crouch and returned fire, experienced killers that they were, but they simply couldn't see. One of the colonists was hit in the hip and she fell with a yelp, another was hit in the side and barely seemed to notice. But the raiders, to a man, crumpled one by one to the ground and were still.

Kupfer stepped up to the wreck, nudged one of the bloody corpses with her foot. She looked up, saw Heidi van Vehmendal staring at her. Heidi looked down at the bodies at her feet then looked back up at her, eyes wide. Kupfer could see what she was thinking: _we did this?_ Bettina Kupfer just nodded and reloaded her rifle. Slowly, Heidi started to smile. Bettina returned the smile, a cool, satisfied smile. _About time._ These scum had been stealing from them, enslaving them, tormenting them and killing them for years. Payback was sweet.

In a matter of minutes, the pirate raid was routed and driven off, ending in disaster. The colonists had suffered a few casualties, but hardly any compared to the pirates. The second battle for Threshold had been decisively won, in stark opposition to the tragic massacre of the first. And it had been won primarily by the peaceful womenfolk of the colony, transformed in a matter of hours to fierce-eyed female fighters.

Less than half the pirate raid made it out of colony central alive. At first they were chased by the mercenary starfighters and colonial skiffs, but they demonstrated they still had teeth by turning to fire their now-unfettered seeker missiles at their pursuers. The colonial forces hastily withdrew, allowing the pirate survivors to slink away and lick their wounds. They did not return.

A deathly quiet settled over community central. Combat volunteers tensely watched for the reappearance of their enemies, and airskiffs and starfighters patrolled back and forth. The smoke gradually became translucent, ephemeral, while Naraka's rays shone down in sheets from between the clouds. The effect was surreal. Mercenaries landed their craft and reloaded their weapons, while the colonists looked to each other in disbelief as a peaceful air came over the area. What had just happened… was it real?

Piers Pappagallo walked out of Nirvana Tower's vehicle bay. He walked as evenly and casually as he always did, moving around a wrecked pirate airskiff and through the scattered bodies of raiders as though they were nothing more than litter on a stroll. He walked as far as the entrance to Keller Canyon, where he stared a while down the way the pirates had fled, then he turned to look back at the tower and surrounding area. From the tower, the enclosure walls, and the grassy floor, all eyes were upon him.

"Starfighters, keep your sensors on active scan. Medical teams, go to all stations and get the wounded," he said, transmitting to everyone. "All other units, stand down. Area is secure. It's over."

He paused for a second. Then he spoke again, briefly: "Well done."

The old merc stood straight and saluted. He held it for a long moment, saluting the entire colony. Somewhere, someone started to clap. Others picked it up. It spread until applause was coming down in waves from the tower and the great walls, applauding the mercs, applauding each other. Colonists hugged each other tight. Some threw up their fists and screamed in triumph, others wept, many did both at once. They had ousted their oppressors. They had saved their home, their children, themselves. They didn't have to be afraid any more.

Pappagallo finally dropped the salute and started making his way back to the tower. He felt very tired. Another day, another battle. This had been a good day, this time. A decisive victory, and few on his side had died. They had no idea how lucky they had been. If a wind had kicked up, if the old smoke grenades hadn't worked, if their enemy had been armed with heatseekers or had toughed it out until the smoke dispersed… if, if, if. He could only hope that their luck would hold.

Far away, on a high cliff in Charon Canyon, something watched. It had no eyes, yet it was aware of everything that transpired, even at that lengthy distance. It watched the battle's conclusion, the colonists cheering, the disaffected mercenaries, the two non-humans among them. Perhaps it saw vulnerability, perhaps it recognized opportunity, perhaps it simply watched. After a time, it turned back to the unearthly, massive, warped skull-like structure from whence it came, its long curved head and sinuous black body and tail vanishing into a passage that a human could only describe as nightmarish. Then the mouth-entrance constricted shut, walls merging like wet sand while the passage itself slid deep into the earth like some giant subterranean snake. The skull-like face sank into the rock and submerged itself, and all foreign presence was gone from view save for a puckered knot of radiating cracks, something like a collapsed cave.

Deep within the earth, a dark presence observed and bided its time. Though they knew not, the colonists were celebrating far too soon.

x x x x x

_Author's notes:_

_Ah, it's good to be writing again! I'm terribly sorry for keeping you waiting this long. For the first half of this year I was struggling with a chronic illness, which floored both me and my inspiration to write. I'm feeling better now and inspired again, hope it lasts! _

_I give due credit to my brother Mist Archon and his story Soul of Silicon for the inspiration for this chapter. In his chapter "Falling towards Enlightenment" he pulled an about-face and set the whole chapter from the point of view of the antagonist. I thought I'd try the same and show things from the point of view of my antagonists, the space pirates. Seems like it worked out, and I was able to stick fairly well to the script of "Magnificent Seven" too. By the way, which face of the enemy made more of an impact, the one introduced at the beginning of the chapter, or the one at the end? Enjoy, and please review!_

_- SA  
_


	10. Entanglements

CHAPTER 10: ENTANGLEMENTS

_**Planet Sanjiva, primary satellite of Omega Cygni a.k.a. "Naraka" in the Cygnus Star Region****  
Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," Dylan-Alpha Canyon near outer edge of community border  
Emergency campsite of the "Shadow Hearts" space raider clan**_

Oslo Tupolev sat on his parked airspeeder bike upon the main deck of their base hovership, and stared at the paltry collection of vehicles that was all the air power left of the Shadow Hearts clan. Out of the forty guys that had started the last raid, seventeen was all that came back. Seventeen guys, all injured, worth about ten aerovehicles, all damaged, some barely functioning. Add on a flyer pilot, a shuttle pilot, and seven base ship crew, and that was all that was left of the clan on this whole planet.

He wondered if his command would survive this. He figured there was a good chance the boss wouldn't simply cut off his head for this debacle, not after all his years as a fine leader and all his years before that as a superb raider. But would the boss let him keep his command? The men all trusted him and were deeply loyal to him, that would count for something. Of course, there were a lot less men now, and they probably weren't quite so loyal and trusting of him any more. Aedon would be furious, that was not in doubt. With the loss of the entire space garrison as well, the clan had suffered a staggering blow to both resources and manpower, and it would take years to recover to their former strength, assuming they ever did. There was a pretty good chance his days as raid leader were numbered.

There was movement behind him; the hovership captain was coming by. Tupolev didn't acknowledge him.

"Well, sawbones doesn't think anybody's gonna croak, that's something at least. But he wants at least a couple weeks rest before you send them out again," said Captain Jeriko.

Tupolev didn't reply, just continued staring at the remaining raider vehicles.

"You probably want a few days to try to patch those things up a bit anyway. I sure wouldn't want to fly anything with as much bullet holes as those, and definitely not into combat. You are planning to go back into combat, right?"

Tupolev briefly considered what would happen if he let this insult against the clan go unpunished. Getting whipped in battle was bad enough, but slinking away with his tail between his legs afterward? Aedon would definitely cut off his head for that.

"Ganon was right, poor bastard," said Jeriko after a moment. "We should have scouted these assholes first, figured out what they could do. They weren't no lightweights if they could waste the whole space force. They had the smarts and the firepower, and they played us like a tin fiddle."

How very nice of him to use the collective "we," when it was Tupolev alone that was responsible for this disaster. The commander had had just about enough of this conversation.

"Get this fucking ship moving," said Tupolev softly. "Set up a patrol system where you circle the colony, hiding by day, moving by night. If one of those starfighters landed a bomb on this ship right now, the clan would be finished. I want vehicles and men patched up and ready to raid in one week, got it? One week! We're going to make those colony bitches regret the day they were born. They'll be trying to give us those mercs on a silver platter by the time I'm done with them."

"Now we're talking!" said Jeriko with an evil smile. "You planning on another big raid? Or more hit and run like?"

"Hit and run," answered the big pirate. "Them mercs can't be everywhere. And once bitch bodies start piling up, the mercs will feel the heat from their little bosses. Why the fuck are you still here talking to me, Jeriko? Make it happen!"

"Alright Tupe, I'm on it. We'll make them suffer but good," promised Jeriko, and he withdrew.

Tupolev considered his words, feeling gloomy and bitter. Jeriko had promised much the same before the last raid, and yet it was they, not the colonists, who had suffered. In truth, he did not know if the next time would be any different.

x x x x x

_**Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," central colony complex  
Level 5 East: conference room 5-13**_

They were all here in the briefing room, sitting around the round table: Piers Pappagallo, Tristan O'Hara, Nikola Kano, Hans Brinnlitz, Amon Pistor, Dameon Aedon, and Jack. Their employer, colony director Anemona Sagan, was also present, as well as their former boss Eve Owan. Pappagallo gave them some time to finish munching sandwiches from the considerately provided platter before he started the debriefing.

"I know you're all tired," Pops started, "but it's important that we have this meeting. We need to hear each other's after-action report, and we need to discuss with our boss what we're doing next. Aedon, do you need a menu or something?"

That last comment was directed at the young merc with the big katana and long black hair, who was on his fourth sandwich. There was a large, conspicuous dressing under one eye, and he kept his bandaged left hand under the table. He looked up as Pops addressed him and blinked.

"Wha, wha? I'm hongy!" he protested around a big mouthful. Harry and Brinnlitz smiled and shook their heads with amusement, and Eve suppressed a giggle.

"Alright, let's get right to it," said Pops, with a disparaging glance at Dameon. "I'll start with my report. For me, the ball started rolling when we first detected the orbital station and starfighters over the planet…"

Pappagallo laid it out briefly and concisely. He detailed their ambush in space, his role in the evacuation of the outlying colonists, the setting up of their trap for the pirates, and the successful battle that followed. He was very modest about his role in the progression of things, omitting that almost all the planning and successful execution of their actions had stemmed from his leadership.

The golden-skinned Eve didn't miss that, and when Pops asked if anyone had questions, she put up her hand.

"If I may say so," she said, starting to glow with pride, "none of this would have happened without Pops! It is a logical certainty that we owe our freedom and even our lives to him. Pops, you are the best thing that ever happened to this planet, and to me. Thank you for everything you have done!"

"Hear, hear!" exclaimed Aedon, and he jumped to his feet and started to clap, minding his injured hand. "To Piers Pappagallo, great leader, grumpy father-figure, and peerless warrior!"

"Hey knock it off!" protested Pops, leaning over to swat the young man with his cap. But the damage was done; Harry and Eve jumped up and applauded immediately, and one by one everyone else joined in, even Kano and Jack.

"Alright, alright, thank you and all, now sit your asses down," Pappagallo shushed them, and they slowly ceased clapping and took their seats.

"Am I seeing this? Little miss, I do believe you made the General blush!" Harry teased.

"Gunstars do not blush," Pops grunted, referring to a spacer nickname for Aerospace Navy top guns. "You want to thank somebody, thank yourselves. Kano was a deciding force in every battle he was in. Brinnlitz's gunnery skills kept my ship in one piece, more than anything else. Jack got us on this planet to begin with, and his holograms kept us safe while we talked to the pirates. Pistor was the tech whiz who made the whole ambush possible, and I couldn't have organized anything without Harry and Dameon. And we haven't won this war yet, so don't get to thankin' too early or you may regret it later. Are we ready to go on?"

"Sorry Pops," Harry apologized. "I'll go next."

Harry's perspective was mostly from the seat of his starfighter, from planetfall to present. His account of the battle in space was brief but thrilling, as was his account of the battle for Threshold. He mentioned his organizing of both the colonial evacuation and the ambush of the pirates, as well as his training of the combat volunteers, but he gave most of the credit to Pops and to the colonists themselves.

"Sorry for being so short," he said at the end, "but the really interesting stuff didn't happen on my watch, and I know that's what the General wants to hear."

"You're talking about the bizarreties on the outskirts," said Aedon. "Well I'll get mine over with next, I didn't get to see any of that directly."

Unlike Harry and Pops, Dameon was prone to embellishment. He managed not to do too much of it, giving a glowing but mostly accurate account of his achievements in the space battle and the evacuation, including the brief skirmish with the pirate airskiff team at dawn. Pops listened closely to the details on the skirmish, pressing Dameon for any more details on the aggressive animal Kano had reported and if he'd seen any unusual precursors in the foliage. Aedon then talked about his efforts organizing the colonists for the battle and his brief work helping Jack set up the hologram transmitters in the control room. However, when he got to his own role in the actual battle, he was surprisingly modest. Pappagallo let him finish his report, then held up a finger.

"What about that thing in the battle?" Pops asked.

"What thing?" Dameon asked, acting all innocent.

"You know what I'm talking about," said Pops impatiently. "That thing where you jumped off your skiff. The thing that gave you those injuries."

"Oh. Uh, that thing."

"Yes, do tell us about it. I've been hearing about it all day," said Sagan, with some anticipation.

"Ah, well, it's probably not as heroic as you've heard it told," said Aedon, grinning self-consciously. "I was on Pops' rover manning the smartgun turret, and I ran out of ammunition. Then I saw a downed pirate skiff through my thermals, the small kind with two men. A couple of colonial warrior women had attacked them but the men somehow shot through the smoke and got them first. I told my partner to get close, and I uh, got off the skiff and fought the raiders on the ground and won. Nothing to it."

"You got off your armoured vehicle to fight two armed men up close?" said a surprised Harry.

"Why did you disembark? You had your sidearm, didn't you?" asked Brinnlitz, raising an eyebrow.

"Ah, well… I tried that first. I emptied my pistol at them. I, uh, missed. They didn't even notice," said Aedon, blushing. "They had shot one of the girls in the leg and one in the chest, and they were about to execute the one with the leg wound. I didn't have time to think, so I just drew my trusty blade and jumped off the rover at them."

"You jumped at them. With a sword." said Pistor, speaking slowly, incredulous.

"It worked, didn't it?" Aedon pointed out.

"Did you really cut off both their heads with one swing?" asked Sagan curiously.

"God no. I landed on top of the one pointing the gun at the girl. Cut him from shoulder almost to crotch. The other one rushed me with a machete. I almost didn't free my sword in time. The machete man was the one I beheaded."

"Well young man, nothing you've said makes you sound any less heroic than I've heard," smiled Sagan.

"Well, I paid for it. Machete man gave me these." Aedon used his injured hand to point to the wound under his eye, which went down all the way to his ear, and the others realized for the first time that Aedon's bandaged hand was missing its smallest finger. "Knocked me on my arse, almost claimed my eye along with my finger. He should have won that fight, really. I don't feel particularly heroic."

"Oh no! Are you in pain? Why was your finger not reattached?" cried Eve, aghast. Aedon waved a hand to calm her.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. The finger got lost on the battlefield, but the Doc patched me up. I feel nary a thing."

"Don't you ever take that kind of risk again," Pappagallo said, his voice dark and intense. "Throw the sword, run them over with the vehicle, do anything. We could have lost you, and then a lot more colonists would die."

"But Pops, I saved them!" the young man protested. "One was lung-shot, but I got to her in time to give CPR! I kept her breathing until the battle was over and help came. And the other would have gotten it in the head! They're going to be fine, Pops! Doc Ryszard patched them up fine! If I get to save two lives with every finger I lose, well you might as well chop my hands off right now!"

"Well done."

Everyone looked at him as Kano spoke for the first time. Aedon's eyes went as wide as saucers.

"Really?" Dameon almost whispered. "Even though I botched the fight?"

The serene-faced combat master nodded with respect. "It is what I would have done in your place."

"Well, I'm not about to question Kano's judgment. Good job, kid," said Pappagallo grudgingly. "I'd rather you didn't do that again, but I shouldn't be questioning your judgment either. Just don't let it go to your head."

Aedon was euphoric with pride as the other mercs nodded their heads to him or congratulated him. Eve came right up and hugged him, and Director Sagan shook his hand. Suddenly, he started to feel fairly heroic.

"Okay Kano, I'd like to hear your report next," said Pops, and the combat master nodded.

Kano spoke briefly about the space battle, the evacuation, and the battle for Threshold, just a simple list of things he saw and things he did. Then he went back to the incident near the end of the evacuation, his encounter with the spider creature.

"I had very little opportunity to examine the organism," he said. "I saw it sitting still briefly, then flashes of it as it attacked me, then as a disintegrating corpse. It appeared to have features of both arachnid and mammal, with segmented legs, a fleshy body, two rear pouches that may have been venom sacs, and a long segmented tail. It was extremely fast and strong, capable of jumping large distances with speed and accuracy, and it did not seem affected by my kicks. After I shot it down, it appeared to start disintegrating, and a large quantity of yellowish liquid came out of its body with noticeable force. This liquid rapidly melted through the metal bridge. I do not know if it was venom or blood, but even if it wasn't venom, the fact that the animal can produce this liquid at all suggests that its venom would be just as dangerous. That is all I can accurately report on the matter."

"That's _all_? Brother, I thought you only saw it in glimpses! How can you get all that detail and call it accurate?" asked a somewhat bamboozled Harry.

Kano looked at him, unperturbed. "I have eyes. I know how to use them."

"You saw no sign of it before it attacked? Nothing unusual in the environment?" Pappagallo pressed. Eve was following everything that was said with great interest.

"I noticed a collapsed cave further down the shelf, but I saw nothing else that stood out." Kano answered.

"A collapsed cave?" mused Brinnlitz. "Really now." Jack raised his great helmeted head and started paying attention, and Brinnlitz did not miss that.

"What?" asked Pappagallo, frowning.

"I saw something like a collapsed cave at one of the homesteads I was evacuating," Brinnlitz answered. "Specifically, the Rostov homestead, where I first saw the infestation I reported to you. It was in the basement, the most heavily infested part of the house. I didn't pay it any mind, I just thought it one of the unfinished walls. That's the only thing I can say in my report that you haven't heard already."

Pappagallo had his finger to his temple now, frowning. Harry noticed and spoke up. "Come on General, don't keep us in the dark. What are you thinking?"

"A collapsed cave near the spider. A collapsed cave in the infestation," he said. "Is the infestation related to the spider? Are they using caves to travel and spread? I'm wondering if those three things are connected."

"Tell us about the infestation," said Eve impatiently to Brinnlitz. "What did it look like, or smell, or feel? Have you seen anything else like it here?"

"It's difficult to describe, you have to see it," said Brinnlitz. "Dearie dear, let's see. Tubes is the simplest way to put it. Many many tubes, some small as threads, some large as pipes, spreading over walls, floors and ceiling. But there's also something like flesh, and bone, and rusty metal. All of this blends together in complex sculptures that would be frankly unsettling to most. There is a dank, musty smell. My infrared viewing mode and communications did not work properly in proximity to the stuff. And there was a distinct… fearfulness about the place. An unnatural feeling in the head and body, dreamlike and frightening. I would hazard a guess that this infestation secretes a mind-altering substance of some kind, perhaps as a defense mechanism."

Eve and Sagan looked at each other, puzzled. "I've never heard of anything like this in fifty years of surveys," said Sagan.

"I've never heard of anything like this anywhere," said the Arcturan planet surveyor.

Amon Pistor had put his arms about him as if suffering from cold while Brinnlitz recounted his observations, and some of the mercs noted with alarm that the small man was shivering.

"Pistor? You look like you've got something on your mind," said Pappagallo gently. "Why don't you share it with us?"

"It's nothing. I had my comms and nightvision putter out in a house and I felt that unnatural fear just like Brinnlitz. Then there was another house that was full of the infestation. The earth caved in by that house and I fell in, and my partner saved my life with a rope. You all know the rest already."

"Now wait a minute brother," said Harry, just as gentle. "Something got to you pretty bad on that mission, and I don't have to be a shrink to see it's getting to you now. Did you see something in the house? What happened in that cave-in? What did your partner save your life from?"

Pistor took a deep breath and got control of himself, his empty coolness coming over him like a comfortable blanket. He relaxed, began speaking in a wooden, unemotional fashion.

"It was dark down in that cave, and full of that infestation, and my nightvision didn't work. You all must know by now I don't like the dark. There's more: with all that stuff all around me, the fear effect was stronger, and I believe I started hallucinating. I saw something from my childhood, a… dog thing. Engineered animals like that killed my parents and almost killed me. I blew the place apart trying to kill it and couldn't take it down, which one would expect if it wasn't real. And after my partner got me out of there, I used a couple of grenades and collapsed the cave for good. That's everything, I give my oath on it."

"So, nearby a homestead full of infestation, you fall into an underground cave full of more infestation," said Pappagallo thoughtfully.

"I see where you're going with this, General," said Harry, grimly. "Where there's caves, there's infestation."

"It is a logical progression," said Eve. "It is a good thing there are no caves near colony central."

"But there may have been such caves near each of the infested homesteads with missing families," said Brinnlitz. "Madame Director, I think you should consider the possibility that your kidnapped colonists may actually be in these caves. Perhaps lured in by mind-altering gases, where they venture in deep and collapse, feeding the infestation with their bodies. Perchance an expedition into the caves…"

Pappagallo held up his hand. "That's going too far. We don't know if the caves have anything to do with anything yet, let's not go off on wild flights of speculation without any actual facts. Right now, everybody is in central where there are no caves or infestation, and nobody's going anywhere near that stuff until the pirate threat is over and done with. I suggest we table this issue for a later time. We don't even know whether us mercs can help with that, we're not scientists or doctors."

Eve looked rebellious, but she nodded her assent.

"I know you have trouble talking, but do you have anything to add Jack?" Pops asked the giant armour-clad spacer. Jack turned his big helmet to look at Pappagallo and stared at him a long moment, then he played a recording of an intense male voice.

"One does not simply walk into Mordor. There is evil there that does not sleep," said Jack.

The mercs looked at each other. Eve shuddered.

"Well that was decidedly unnerving Jack, but it gives us little in usable information or suggestions," said Aedon pointedly. "Do you have anything _useful_ to say?"

Jack simply lowered his helmet.

"Alright then," said Pops. "Let's go on to more pressing things than after-action reports and conjecture. The big one of course, is what are we doing now."

"We've broken the pirate occupation, and we've armed you and trained you to defend yourself," he said, looking to the two women. "The pirates have too few men and vehicles to regain control of the colony, they can only hope to weaken you with guerilla tactics now. We've achieved an important victory, but we're not done yet."

"You can't go back to your homes, you would be easy prey for the remaining raiders. If we leave, they would regain air superiority for their remaining dropship and flyer. With their bombing capability, they could well regain control of the colony. And the elder Aedon himself is going to show up sooner or later with his attack cruiser. How are we going to deal with these problems?" he asked, now looking to the mercs.

"Seems to me we have to finish off the ground forces," said Harry. "We have to take out the flyer and dropship at the very least. And every raider is going to be a threat until he's dealt with, we need to get every one. Sorry, but nobody can go back to their homes till we've secured the colony."

"We've already provided for that," said Sagan. "Nirvana Tower was built back when the air was still toxic, it was home for everybody back then. Nirvana has enough quarters, hydroponics, and recycling capability for every colonist left on the planet. We can stay here indefinitely, and we've already organized for it."

"Excellent!" said Pops, with satisfaction. "We might be here a while, and our job is a lot easier if we only have to protect this one place. We can break up our task into three or four jobs: protecting this place, taking out the pirate flyers, taking out the ground forces, and destroying the cruiser when it shows up."

"If I could add to that?" asked Pistor, and Pops waved him to continue. "Those pirates have taken a lot of slaves. We have some of their collars, and I've been looking at them. I think I can make a transmitter that will send a summon command to every slave collar."

"Wait a minute," said Harry, frowning. "Aren't those collars designed to kill the wearer if they get tampered with?

"Well, yes, but this command is already built in to summon the slave to the owner," explained Pistor. "I just need to hack it so all the collars get called by the same remote. It's going to have to be short range, we don't want those poor people trekking hundreds of klicks, but it could make a rescue attempt much easier. We just have to get to the slave camp when there's few or no pirates there, and if they're all here doing hit and run attacks…"

"I get it, we need to do this quickly," said Pops approvingly. "Good idea Pistor! We'll work on that tomorrow."

"I also have something for you to do," said Sagan, rubbing her hands nervously. "I've talked things over with the other women, and we've agreed on another task for you, a very important task." When Pops nodded to her, she continued.

"There's been no official census, but I understand that there's about two hundred of us left. There's a few young boys, a few elderly men. There's around fifty girls under fourteen years, and thirty or so older women. That leaves about one hundred women and girls of child-bearing age, and no men. With so few males, we're looking at the end of Threshold colony in a generation. So, put simply, we need your babies."

"Wait, wait, just wait a minute here…" interjected Pappagallo, but Sagan pressed on relentlessly.

"You all were contracted to save this colony from destruction. Well, that's exactly what you'll be doing, because without men and children we will end up a ghost town, as sure as if the pirates killed us all. Go and see Doc Ryszard immediately after the briefing and have the spacer sterilizer capsule taken out of your arm. And from then on, whenever a Sanjivan woman asks to spend some time with you, don't ask questions, just go to her quarters and sleep with her. I'm sure you'll enjoy this duty. Understood?"

"And you have to ejaculate into her vagina at least once!" Eve piped up, causing some amused smiles around the table. "In fact conception would be much more likely if you were to ejaculate several times into…"

"Look, this was not part of the contract!" interrupted Pops angrily.

"I just explained how it _is_ part of your contract," answered Sagan, calm and sure. "And I'm not asking. I'm ordering you to have sex with any woman who asks for it, is that understood? Sanjivan women are famous for being both pretty and hot-blooded, you won't have a problem."

"You're also required to have an ardenol capsule implanted," Eve piped up again. "It will improve your libido and recovery time so that you can have intercourse with great frequency, and it will also increase your sperm count…"

"Look here, we did _not_ sign up to be breeding stock!" Pappagallo snarled.

"Ah, General? If I could?" Harry motioned beside him, and Pops leaned close so they could talk in private.

"They're offering to pay us, house us, feed us, and give us all the nookie we can handle!" Harry said quietly. "This place is paradise man! Why are you so against it? What's the problem?"

Pappagallo glared at him, then answered "It's the principle of it. I don't like being used."

The old merc sat up straight and spoke to Sagan again: "You don't get to ask us to do anything you want. You can't ask us to become farmers, or give up a kidney, or get married to who you designate. We are combat mercenaries, hired to liberate you and protect you through combat, and that's all we can do for you."

"But you are also _men_," Sagan retorted. "I'm only asking you to do what men do! Look, fine. I'm willing to make some exceptions. You want to request to avoid this duty, tell me why, and I'll decide on it."

Kano looked at her. "I'm sterile."

Sagan blinked. "You are?"

Kano nodded and sat back. Sagan frowned.

"And you wouldn't be making this up to get out of the job?" she asked suspiciously.

"Solar radiation," he answered. "One too many space missions."

Sagan stared at him, considering. She didn't consider for long.

"Request denied," she said, folding her arms. "Radiation may have lowered the number of sperm in your semen, but if you put out enough of it there's still a chance to get a girl pregnant. Report for duty as usual, but you'll need to have sex several times with each woman to increase her chances…"

"No," said Kano calmly. Sagan narrowed her eyes.

"That's not a request, mister," she said warningly.

"Fire me," he suggested. The colony director glowered at him.

"Well, I'm sure most of us will try our best at this arduous and thankless chore," said Dameon Aedon with a lopsided grin. "But Jack is obviously ineligible because of his illness, and me, well, I don't see too many Sanjivan widows lining up to bear children to the son of the man who made them widows."

"Jack, yes, but you? You'll be surprised at how many Sanjivan ladies will pull in their horns for you, especially after what you did for us today," said Sagan, showing a glimmer of a smile. "We don't believe in demon's seed, and the apple has dropped far from the tree in your case anyway."

"I'm not sure if I understood all those metaphors, but it sounds distinctly like I'll be finding it difficult to preserve my celibacy in the coming days," Aedon mused.

"Let me make it clear to you," said Sagan primly. "Request absolutely denied. If a Sanjivan girl gives the order, report for duty between her legs and get to work on the double! Anything else?"

After the laughter from her little crack faded, Hans Brinnlitz raised a finger and spoke up.

"Even if I wanted to oblige you madame, which I don't incidentally, I wouldn't be capable of performing. I'm only wired for men, I fear," said Brinnlitz, which got quite a few raised eyebrows.

It wasn't exactly true. He was actually bisexual, but that wasn't the point. Brinnlitz was like a praying mantis, who could not help but slay whoever he mated with. He had been celibate for over a decade and was perfectly fine with that: killing lust and sexual lust was one and the same for him, and he had no lack of satisfying killing in his life.

"I do understand your population plight however," he continued, "and I am willing to provide a sperm sample if you wish."

"It would make things much easier, but I don't think we can use it. Am I right?" said Sagan, looking to Eve, who nodded.

"We have neither the equipment nor the expertise to perform sperm freezing and artificial insemination," explained the Arcturan woman. "If a woman wants to become pregnant in Threshold, she shall have to get her sperm the old-fashioned way, fresh from the penis."

Harry and Dameon almost fell out of their chairs laughing. Jack and Kano didn't seem to see the humour in what she'd said. Pistor and Brinnlitz chuckled and shook their heads, and Pops put his hand on his face and rubbed his eyes. It seemed that when Eve Owan stuck her foot in her mouth, she stuck it in to the knee.

"What did I say?" asked a puzzled Eve. She loved talking about sex, but didn't understand a whit of Terran sexual humour. "You do have functional penises, do you not? Penises that ejaculate viable semen when sufficiently…"

"Yes, yes they do," Sagan interrupted hastily. "Point taken, Eve. Let's move on. Anybody else with a problem?"

"Yep, me," said Pappagallo. "I'm old and stodgy and I'm just plain not doing it. You don't like it, fire me."

"Obviously I can't fire you, Pops. But we need you to do this most of all," said Sagan with a pained expression. "You're the one most responsible for our freedom and happiness. I've talked to so many women who need to thank you for that, who need to be close to you, who desperately need to take you into their bodies and make you feel good, I don't think they'd give a damn if you left the blocker cap in your arm. You're the most desired man in Threshold. I'm strenuously advising you to make love to those girls, Pops. It's a matter of morale for the colony."

"I'd be feeling pretty flattered if I were you, General," Harry commented. Pappagallo took off his cap and scratched his graying head.

"I'll think about it, all right?" he conceded, in cantankerous fashion. "But no goddamn promises!"

"Just don't think for too long, Pops," Sagan cautioned him. "There are some extremely horny girls out there that are going to get whipped into a froth waiting for you to make up your mind."

"Well they can just froth on then," Pappagallo growled. "How the hell is it that all these women went into heat when we got here anyway? Weren't those pirates abusing you sexually? How is it you want to go anywhere near a man after what they did to you?"

"You aren't the pirates, for one," Sagan pointed out. "And yes, there are lots who are traumatized and won't come near you. But there are much more women who were lucky enough to escape the pirates' attention and have been without a man for years. There are more who were abused but recovered, and more still who just want a baby. And there's a sizeable lot who want to soothe the pain with a good man's touch, girls who deal with stuff by getting randy. All of those women are the ones who want you."

"Christ." Pops shook his head. This was the weirdest situation he'd come across in all his long years of freelancing. "Is there any goddamn thing else?"

There were no other items of interest, at least none that couldn't be addressed tomorrow, so, yawning and stretching, the mercs headed to the door of the conference room.

As soon as the door opened, the mercs were greeted by the surprising sight of quite a number of Sanjivan colonists waiting outside the door. They were dressed markedly different from their usual colonial jumpsuits, all flowing short-skirted gowns and dresses, and their hair was nicely done up and makeup applied. The atmosphere was festive, effervescent, yet quietly simmering with passion too. The women were rejoicing inside, celebrating the best thing that had happened to them in three long years of misery. And all two dozen of them hoped to do some vigorous celebrating with the opposite sex, with those who'd made this celebration possible. In short, they all looked set up for one sweet party, and doubtless more than a few were hoping to get a head start on the Threshold procreation program.

Well, everyone was all dolled up except one. As the mercs halted and gazed out the double doors in surprise, a shout boomed out from a powerful pair of lungs.

"Hey! Dameon Aedon! Yeah sword boy, you!" the muscular Brigid Wulcan yelled out. Aedon froze, looking a bit like a deer in the headlights. Wulcan shoved through the well-dressed crowd and grabbed his arm. "Get fucking over here! Move it!"

As Aedon was smartly marched off toward the elevators, Harry laughingly waved goodbye to him.

"Good luck, brother! Hope you come back alive!" the hat-sporting merc called out to his younger compatriot. But then, just as suddenly, Harry discovered a girl under both his arms.

"Hi Harry, I'm Bettina," said the young, pretty blonde girl in the blue microskirted dress.

"And I'm Heidi," said the younger, prettier girl with flaming crimson hair and flowing pink gown. "We like you."

"And we'd like you to bunk with us," added Bettina Kupfer.

"We're really sorry for being pushy, but we really have to insist," finished Heidi van Vehmendal.

"Whoa! Well I guess I got no choice then! I'm bein' swept off my poor feet!" Harry winked at the other mercs as he was led away. "Folks sure are friendly 'round here!"

"No."

Kano's voice was somehow tranquil and immensely forceful at the same time, and it stopped the women in their tracks as the bolder ones tried to sneak under his arms like they'd done with Harry. He swept the small crowd of females with a steely-eyed gaze, settling a moment on an extremely petite woman who stood out for her brown skin, then he turned and walked unhurriedly to the stairwell exit.

None messed with Jack, of course. His fearsome appearance and size notwithstanding, even the most adventurous lady colonists balked at courting a leper. Brinnlitz deftly sidestepped into the wide space given to the giant spacer and held up a hand to the women.

"Dear dear, we're not the most cooperative of paramours, are we?" said the sniper sympathetically. "Jack here obviously values his privacy, and I'm afraid I'm only configured for men. You'll have to look elsewhere, my dears."

There were quite a few "awws," and many long-lashed eyes watched in disappointment as the handsome black man escorted Jack to the elevators.

Amon Pistor was the next of the mercs to come out, and like the two girls with Harry, Gina Gerhardt was just as assertive, quickly swooping through the crowd to put her hands on Pistor's shoulders.

"Since we're partners already, you might as well bunk with me," she told him coolly. "We'll be on the same shift so we can wake each other up."

Pistor just stared at her. The leggy, shapely woman was wearing white stockings with heels, and a tiny white slit-dress which was so sheer he could see the colour of her nipples. Gerhardt was a little too square-jawed and curvy for a holovid starlet perhaps, yet she was so gorgeous it was dizzying to him. After all those celibate years, this was the magnificent creature that had boldly claimed him. He had gotten used to being alone, being empty. Now there was a fierce burning in his loins, and he wasn't sure that he wanted it.

The smiling Gerhardt put her arm around his shoulders, and they walked off to the elevators. They were an odd couple to be sure, a tall, glamorous blonde, and a short, professional-looking merc. Yet somehow, their outlines seemed to fit against each other rather nicely.

Before Pappagallo had gotten near the briefing room door, the most beautiful female on the planet rushed around the table and seized his arm to walk with him. Pops stared down at Eve, but didn't push her away. When he came out into the hall, the golden-skinned Arcturan stared fiercely at the other women with her big luminous eyes, and the old merc was left alone. He made an imperceptible sigh of relief.

Pops was the last of the mercs to go, and the women around them either went "aww" in disappointment or applauded Eve for landing the biggest catch. Still, everyone was too happy to be sore at missing their chance at a date. The music and the drinks were downstairs, the first community celebration since the day the pirates had come. They were all going to have a good time tonight; Threshold was coming back to life.

"Thanks boss. I didn't need all that nonsense after a day like this," Pappagallo said to Owan once they were inside the elevator.

"You may thank me properly in my quarters, Pops," she answered, matter-of-factly. "And I need to thank you strenuously for everything you have done for us all."

"Nope. Sorry, Miss Owan," he said firmly. "You're my boss, you're half my age, and you're not even my species. And even if you weren't all that, all I plan to do tonight is sleep like the dead. The only thankin' that's going to happen is what we say right here. Understood?"

Eve stared up at him with her beautiful eyes, taking in all he'd said, processing it, determining response. Then she answered him by suddenly stepping in front of him and hugging him tight around his waist, resting her downy-haired head on his chest.

"Thank you," she said, nuzzling her cheek against his chest, pressing her firm breasts snugly against his upper belly. Again, Pappagallo didn't push her away. He awkwardly put his arms around her and patted her back. He honestly couldn't tell if the girl was just unabashedly affectionate like a little kid, or if she was slyly seducing him. Hell, she didn't follow human rules, maybe she was doing both.

Eve noticed even before he did.

"Pops, are your hands shaking?" she asked, twisting her flexible neck around to look back over her shoulder, down at where his hands were resting on her back.

"Hm. That's odd. Well I gotta mosey on now," said Pappagallo casually as the doors opened to the habitation floor, going cold inside. He started to step out but Eve thrust out her slender arm to bar his way and slapped the emergency stop on the panel, closing the doors.

"Let me see," she demanded, grabbing one big callused hand. "This has happened before?"

"Just now and then, when I'm tired. Look, it's nothing," said Pappagallo, annoyed, trying to pull his weakened arm away as gently as possible. Eve swung her arm over his and stubbornly gripped his forearm under her armpit as hard as she could, and she began massaging his hand in both of hers. To his amazement, the shakes started to slow down, in both hands, and strength started to return to his arms.

"I want you to see Doctor Ryszard tomorrow," she said, gazing intently at his hand. Her massage was turning distinctly tender now, her long delicate fingers caressing and entwining with his. "At the very least, you're severely stressed. We will go to my quarters at once, and I shall engage in some gentle sexual…"

"It's nothing!" he snapped, his arm now strong enough for him to yank it away from her. He smacked the emergency stop button to deactivate it and then hit the open button. "Good night Miss Owan!"

And he stalked off down the hall toward his assigned quarters, leaving a hurt and worried Eve staring after him from the elevator.

Pappagallo found his quarters, locked the door with difficulty, and slumped into bed fully dressed. Refusing a woman that lovely inside and out, that took a lot out of a man. Right now, he wanted her so bad he could barely think. And she knew his deadly little secret now, what would come of that?

Pops raised his hands to his eyes; they were barely shaking. Her touch had somehow been soothing and electrifying at the same time. What the hell was going on? What the hell was she doing to him? He put his hands to his face and made a sound halfway between a growl and a groan. He was so tired his bones ached, and so aroused it would be ages before he could fall asleep. Damnable Arcturan. He was too old for this shit.

x x x x x

_**Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," central colony complex  
East: personnel elevator D**_

Dameon Aedon stood beside his partner Brigid Wulcan in the elevator, and wondered what offense he had committed. Wulcan was fuming, muttering to herself. Suddenly she turned to Aedon.

"I was going to kill you!" she snapped at him. The young man took a step back. Wulcan stared at him, a mix of emotions blazing in her eyes.

"I was just waiting for it. As soon as you looked at someone funny, bang! Back of the head. And I would have my revenge. But you just fucking had to turn out good!"

Wulcan thumped Dameon in the chest with her closed fist, again and again with each expletive. "You had to be fucking brave! Had to be fucking kind! Had to fucking jump off the skiff fucking through the air to save a girl with that fucking sword like you're some fucking holovid hero! Had to be fucking everything that _he_ fucking ain't! Fuck!"

"Ah… milady? Have I upset you? Or pleased you? Or upset you by pleasing you?" asked Dameon, thoroughly confused.

"Shut the fuck up," Wulcan said sharply as the sliding doors opened to level nine. She grabbed his good hand and marched him out into the personnel quarters area.

"You're bunking with me, sword boy," she said briskly as they walked. "You can meet my son."

"Well why didn't you say so?" said Aedon, breaking into a smile. "Thank you for putting me up, milady! I would love to meet…"

"Shut the fuck up! You just had to be fucking polite too!" Wulcan cut him off.

They came to a door, room 9-18, and she led him in, none too gently at that. The quarters inside were roomy and welcoming, with many doors, obviously intended for a large family. There was only one person in here though, a sad-eyed boy of about fourteen.

"Ezra, this is him. The fucking hero himself. Dameon, that's my boy Ezra," said Wulcan.

"Hi Ma. Hi Mr. Aedon, I'm glad I can meet you," said the boy politely, utterly the opposite of his foul-mouthed mother.

"Come on, sword boy," said Wulcan, and walked off into one of the doors. Aedon hesitated though, and turned toward young Ezra.

"Ezra, if I may ask, how do you know my name?" the young merc asked curiously.

"Ma talked to me about you, and some other people did too," said Ezra. "We know about you and your dad, and how you want to set things right. You're making Ma swear more than normal. That's a lot."

"I can quite imagine!" Aedon smiled ruefully. "And, why am I making your Ma swear exactly? Is it just because of my father?"

"She's mad because she wants to hate you and you're not letting her," the boy explained. "Since she can't hate you, that means she has to… aw, Ma!"

Ezra smacked his hand over his eyes in a gesture of exasperation. Dameon turned to see that the boy's mother had come back into the main living area, and his eyes widened.

"Stop walking around naked, Ma! You're embarrassing me!" Ezra protested.

"Ah shaddap you fainting fanny, it's nothing you ain't seen already," Wulcan pooh-poohed her son, as she stood before Aedon as bare as the day she was born. She wasn't exactly the most attractive of women, being in her forties and rather butch-looking with brown hair in a buzz-cut and a sturdy, thick-waisted figure. However, she somehow managed to be well-muscled and curvy at the same time, with heavy breasts, wide hips and round buttocks offsetting her brawny limbs and torso, and there was a certain earthy sensuality in the contrast. Aedon found himself growing rather aroused at the sight of her. She might come across as a brick shithouse with her clothes on, but she definitely wasn't hard on the eyeballs with them off.

"Hey hero! You're keeping me fucking waiting. Get the fuck in here."

Dameon gingerly followed Wulcan through the door, trying not to stare at her broad, muscled bottom as it gently swayed in front of him. His arousal was getting to the point of discomfort.

"I didn't realize you Sanjivans didn't have a nudity taboo," he chuckled, a little nervously. "A little warning would have…"

"Will you shut the fuck up?" Wulcan cut him off again. She'd been leading him to the double bed in this bedroom, and was now facing him with her arms crossed under her massive high-set breasts, tapping her foot.

"Get your clothes off already. Come on fuck, let's go," she urged him.

"Uh, milady, there's no other bed in…" Dameon started.

"Call me 'milady' again and I'll slap your mouth sideways!" Wulcan interrupted him. "My name's Brigid, got it? Fuck, do I have to do everything myself?"

"My dear partner, if I didn't know better, I would think we were preparing to, well, be intimate," said Aedon cautiously, flinching a little as the woman started roughly pulling off his clothes.

"Christ almighty! At last! He has a brain!" Wulcan declared, then she slapped his hand as he started to help her with his gunbelt. "Fuck you! You weren't fast enough so I'm doing it! Just fucking hold still or I'll rip 'em off!"

"Brigid, what exactly do you want?"

"If you have to know, I'm getting my revenge on your pa," she answered as she continued to work. "I can't fucking kill him because you and your pals will probably blow his ass up in space, and I can't kill his son because you're a fucking grade-A sweetheart. So I'm getting my revenge the same way your mom did."

"Your pa took my boys from me, so you're gonna give me one back. I'm gonna pop out his grandson, fucking love the little bastard to death, and raise him to be decent and kind and strong like you. I'll turn the little shit into everything his psycho grandpappy hates. That's the sweetest fucking revenge a woman can ever get."

"You… you want to have… my child?" said a dazed Dameon, staring down at her as she squatted before him to open his pants.

"Holy shit, you didn't get much of your pappy's brains, did you?" said Wulcan impatiently. "Yes-Dameon-Aedon-I-want-you-to-get-me-pregnant-so-I-can-give-birth-to-your-baby. And even if I didn't, I'd still want to hump your brains out, you dopey fucking sweetheart! Haven't you heard a word… oh fuck me!"

Wulcan had just started pulling down Dameon's trousers, and as his rigid sex sprang out in front of her nose she let out a little cry of delight.

"You got a nice hard one for me, eh?" she said excitedly, taking hold of the shaft and stroking it in her fist. "Sword-boy's a good name for you, this thing feels like it's made of steel! I bet… oh fuck me! Gimme!"

Before Wulcan's eyes, a glistening droplet welled up on the tip of the jutting extrusion. The woman promptly seized the whole bulbous head in her mouth, sucking greedily as drop after drop oozed onto her tongue. They stayed that way for a while, Wulcan kneeling before the lithely muscled young man, clutching at his rump and rhythmically bobbing her head while he hissed and sighed in pleasure. Finally, she released him with a smack of her lips.

"I haven't gotten any of that sweet stuff in three fucking years," she said, licking her lips. "You taste good, sword boy. So now that you're bare-assed and all riled up, are you gonna fucking reject me now?"

"No… Brigid. I'm… happy," said Aedon softly. He had always known that he wanted to have children, and he had also been quite aware that his mission would likely claim his life before he'd had the chance. Furthermore, Brigid Wulcan was surprisingly delicious to the eye when her clothes were off, and he rather liked her despite (or perhaps because of) her rough edges. And if her son was any indication, she wasn't a half bad mother either. If he was to have children, he wouldn't mind if it had to be with her.

"It's very sudden, but I want this. I will serve thee gladly," said Dameon.

"Well stick it in and serve me hard, sword boy," Wulcan said, starting to smile. She gently pushed him down to sit on the bed, and sat beside him to caress his sex. "This ain't gonna be easy, you know. I'm an old lady with an old womb, so you'll have to blow a lot of loads into me before I catch preggers. And I mean a _lot_. It's gonna be the best fucking job you ever had. And you know what? You can just keep on blowing loads into me after I catch. See how fucking nice I am?"

"Well I for one find the idea of being your personal boy toy rather pleasing, but I suspect the other women who want babies might not be so pleased," Aedon noted.

"Yeah, we know how to share on Sanjiva, sword boy. The girls can have you in the day when you're off-duty, but your evenings and nights are mine. So whaddaya say sweetie, you itching to pump momma full of baby gravy or what?"

"Ah, Brigid love… you marched me in here before I could go see Doc Ryszard. I still have the blocker cap in my arm," said Aedon sheepishly as the woman stroked and fondled his stiff part with both hands.

"Oh. Well, doesn't matter," she said dismissively. "It's been years since you had a woman, right? You'll need to squirt out a load or two just to unclog your tubes. And I don't care anyway because it's definitely been fucking years since I had a man. I want some cream in my crack, I don't care if it ain't primed."

"Can I… touch you?" the lad asked, tentatively raising his hands towards the older woman's breasts. Wulcan rolled her eyes and made a growl of impatience deep in her throat.

"After I sucked your cock for ten minutes and while I'm stroking your cock right now, you have the nerve to ask my fucking permission before you touch my tits? Do I have to do fucking everything myself?"

She grabbed his hands, minding the injured one, and yanked them to her heavy breasts. Her puffy nipples were so large that they weren't completely covered by his palms.

"That's it, come to momma," Wulcan sighed as he started stroking her. When Dameon leaned in to kiss her, she closed her eyes and tilted her face upwards for him, and her kisses were unexpectedly gentle and tender. When he slid his hand down her broad belly to run his fingers through her luxuriously thick triangle of dark hair, she immediately leaned back and spread her sturdy thighs for him.

"That's it, go on! Stick your finger in deeper, she ain't gonna bite!" the woman encouraged him as he fondled between her legs. "Christ, I'm such a runny mess down there. If I don't get some penis in there soon I'm gonna soak the bed. Aw shit, no Dameon! Stop it! I want your cock in me, not your fucking tongue!"

Against her protests, the young man pushed Wulcan flat on her back and spread her legs wide, burying his face between her thighs and enthusiastically licking and sucking on her fleshy folds. She rested her legs on his broad shoulders and stroked his long hair, rolling her quivering hips under his tongue as he forced moan after moan from her lips. After a time, he came up for air and started clambering atop her, but Wulcan stopped him, rolling him to the side and onto his back as she got on top straddling his hips.

"Nuh-uh. Me on top, sword boy," Wulcan admonished, reaching down to guide him in as she lowered her hips and impaled herself. "You don't know it right now, but you're real tired sweetie. Let momma do all the work. And when you're done shooting all your stuff into me, you just let go and fall right asleep. I'll have breakfast cooked up for ya when you wake, and you can bend me over the kitchen table for dessert. Do you like that? Your little man sure liked that, I can feel him twitching in there… oh yeah… there we go… oh baby…"

It really was quite ironic. Pretty much the only time Brigid Wulcan stopped saying "fuck" was when she was in the throes of lovemaking.

x x x x x

_**Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," central colony complex  
East personnel elevator A**_

The one known as Jack looked curiously at Hans Brinnlitz as he followed her into the elevator. She pressed the button for the shuttle docks at the very top of the tower, and the human didn't put in a different destination for himself. He just stared at her looking up and down her armoured form, even bending forward at one point and sniffing her armour at the top of her thigh.

"What is your major malfunction?!" barked a male voice out of her vocoder.

"I never had a chance to be near you till after the battle," Brinnlitz murmured. "My oh my, you're a fascinating creature of many contradictions, Jack. Your limp, for one. When you are in company, it is quite pronounced. But it seems as though the pain mysteriously eases when you are distracted, or need to hurry, or have no one immediately near you. How is that?"

He had Jack's full attention now, the body language of the giant form focused exclusively on him. Brinnlitz smiled and loosened his shoulder holster.

"Ah, caught your interest have I? Well here's something that caught my interest. That weapon in your shoulder, did you design it? It looks and smells distinctly like a plasma weapon, but the smallest plasma guns anyone can come up with need entire starfighters to be built around them. Yours could fit in a pistol. It seems to have no ammunition or cooling limitations. It can be used rapid-fire or in splitting clusters, and the bolts somehow follow their targets, as if a guidance mechanism could survive being immersed in a ball of superheated plasma. Just to give you an idea how special that is, consider that Weyland-Yutani would pay you _millions_ of adjusted dollars for the design, and if you turned them down they would send all their finest assassins to take the device from you. Interesting that you just threw something like that together in your workshop, no?"

Jack made a buzzing sound, then played a spliced recording. "With this grand technology/I do what I must."

"Mmm. Then there's the matter of your ship. You must have the best emissions-masking system ever made to do what you did out there in orbit. And to destroy that station so utterly, you must have nuclear weapons aboard, yet no missile or radioactivity was observed anywhere near the station, before or after its destruction. And then there's the impossibility of holding position and _still_ staying stealthed in the middle of a deadly debris field. Decidedly… unearthly, wouldn't you say?"

"With this grand technology/I do what I must," said Jack again. Tension was beginning to show in Jack's body language now.

"Then there's the matter of your smell," said Brinnlitz, tapping his nose. "You don't have the distinctive smell of a Denebi rotter. No, more like the smell of a rotter's clothing, perhaps built into your armour. When the organisms that cause the smell are dead and decaying, they produce a slightly different odour. Have you discovered the cure for necrosis by any chance? No, don't answer that."

"That's not the smell I'm most interested in. There is a warmth to your smell that I would know anywhere. It is very strange given your size, but around you, I smelled… a woman."

Jack made a new sound, a low clicking hiss. Brinnlitz noted that with interest as he continued.

"It was a strange smell, subtle and unfamiliar, but not some leftover like your rotter's rags. I smelled it again just now. And when I started paying closer attention to you, I noticed the thing that gave you away. It's the wider pelvis, it produces a different gait. Limp and lurch all you like, you just couldn't hide that tiny little wiggle in your arse when you walked. You're a giant woman, Jack."

The hissing didn't stop. After a moment, Jack played a new spliced quote over her hissing. "Gosh darn, I guess you got me!/Who would have thought under all that armour Samus was a woman?"

"Indeed! But that's not the best part," Brinnlitz smiled. "I sense something in you that can't be discerned by the five senses alone. You see Jack, I'm a predator by trade, I hunt men for my living. But it's more than just my job. In my very soul, I am a predator. And I know my own kind."

Jack's hiss grew sharp. Brinnlitz pressed on regardless. He was still smiling, but the smile had turned distinctly feral.

"In your heart of hearts, you too are a predator. I can feel it. You too know the anticipation of the hunt, the thrill of the chase, the glory of the kill. But there's a difference between you and I. You don't have my taint, my sin. I hunt human beings for my sport, my cannibalistic sport. You've done so too, Jack, but you feel no guilt about it. _Because you are not human_."

With a terrifying roar, Jack surged forward and grabbed Brinnlitz by his black jacket, slamming him into the wall of the elevator with his legs dangling high above the floor.

"Aha! Not so… crippled… after all… are you?" Brinnlitz said, with some difficulty but still smiling that vicious smile. "My dear… hunter… do you… really think… catching me… would be… so easy?"

Jack looked sharply downward as she felt something touch her throat. Brinnlitz had a heavy pistol in his hand, and the barrel was resting lightly beneath her jaw. The scientist was aghast. Where had he gotten this weapon? How had he drawn it without her noticing? There was no possible thing she could do now that a simple trigger pull wouldn't defeat.

Growling softly, Jack slowly lowered Brinnlitz to the ground and released him, and she stepped away from him.

"Don't worry Jack, I won't tell anyone your secret," said Brinnlitz with a wink, sheathing the pistol back in its shoulder holster. "I know you wish to exist among us unnoticed, for whatever reason. There is no reason for me to betray you, and you would hunt me down if I did. You would make a powerful enemy, which I'd rather not have. I just had to know for myself."

Jack made a strange series of clicks in her throat, then played a recording of a child's voice: "You make a terrible friend, mister" followed by a man's voice: "But he would be the worst enemy to have."

Brinnlitz chuckled softly, then nodded toward the open door of the elevator. They had just reached their destination.

"You were going to your ship for the night, no? Don't let me keep you." He made a shooing motion. Jack stared at him a moment longer, then turned and lurched off into the docks, limping for the eyes of the colonists on watch.

Brinnlitz watched her leave, the elevator doors eventually closing to cut her off from view, then he let himself go and threw his head back with euphoric laughter. His body was trembling, his skin tingling down to his fingertips, and he was light-headed from the thrill. For a moment there, he wasn't sure if Jack was going to rip him limb from limb, and the fear and subsequent triumph over her was absolutely sumptuous. Pressing the button for habitat level, he touched his wire headset to stop the audio recording with a sense of deep satisfaction.

He hadn't actually known for sure whether Jack was inhuman or not, only a creeping suspicion that all the clues indicated something much bigger. But he trusted his instincts, and they hadn't betrayed him. Jack herself had proven everything he'd asserted. He had successfully bluffed an alien creature, and he had the proof of it. Now, what would he actually do with this information?

He supposed he would have to hold on to it, he hadn't been lying when he said he didn't want to make an enemy of Jack. But should it become useful for others to know, or if the creature became a problem, he would quickly disseminate his recording and participate in the witch hunt that would follow. He doubted anything actually said on the footage would make much of an impression, but that roar she had made? No human could make a sound like that. The implications were staggering.

Oh yes, these were exciting times.

x x x x x

_**Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," central colony complex  
East personnel elevator B**_

As they stepped into the elevator and began their ascent, the usual numb coolness came over Pistor, and the pressure in his groin receded. The merc looked at his scantily-clad partner, and then silently took off his waistcoat and put it over her shoulders. Gina looked at him with surprise.

"Don't you like it?" she asked him. "It's the sexiest dress I have!"

"It's very beautiful. You're very beautiful. But you don't know me, partner. You don't want to know me. You don't want to do this," he said tonelessly.

"No, don't do it!" she exclaimed. The woman faced him, put her hands on his shoulders, her face intense and desperate. "I can feel you going away from me! Don't do that Amon. I want you to come back. I want you… to be with me."

A hard look came over Pistor's face. "Partners have to protect each other. So that's what I'm doing. I'm protecting you from me."

Gerhardt opened and closed her mouth, searching for something to say. Pistor forged ahead: "You're a sweet girl, Gina. That's why you shouldn't be with someone like me. I'm all seedy bars and whorehouses. You deserve better than me. Go back to your quarters. I'll find the room they gave…"

"I was a slave before. Did you know that?" she interrupted him. Pistor froze, raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"The pirates took me the first day and put a nerve collar on me, and because of the way I look, I got conditioned to be a concubine," she said, quite matter-of-factly. "I don't remember much because of the collar, and I'm kind of glad for that, you know? Because I do know that I would have done anything for them. Because I'm so pretty, big bunches of them wanted to have me at the same time, and I begged for more afterwards. Being pretty isn't so great sometimes."

"When our men attacked the pirates, I got left behind by mistake. I wandered around searching for my masters, and when one of the colony skiffs found me I didn't want to go with them. I fought them, but they saved me anyway. After they got that thing off my neck, I didn't feel anything for a long time. I slowly got my emotions back, but I knew I would never want a man again. I was done with men, done with sex. I didn't hate them or anything, I still cared for my little brother and old Doc Ryszard and all the good men we have left. I just didn't want to be close to any of them ever again."

"Then you guys came along, and suddenly we had a chance to strike back. I was so happy when I was picked to be a partner for one of you, because I knew I would have my chance to pay them back for what they did to me, for what they did to all of us. And then I met my partner. You."

"I saw myself in you," Gina said to him, her voice thick with emotion. "You're stuck in that shell, and it makes you empty inside. I know what that's like. I was there. I wanted to help, but you wouldn't let me, it was too soon."

"So I got to see what you were like, and I could tell that you cared despite it all. The way you talked to people, the way you worked so hard to save them, the way you fought even though you were afraid. We went through hell together, and that's the best way to really get to know somebody inside. And I saw what you were like, and I liked it. A lot."

"Then that awful thing happened that scared you so badly, and you hugged me. And something amazing happened when you hugged me, something amazing for both of us. I felt you coming out of your shell, just for a second. And your arms were so strong around me, and your sweat smelled so good, I just started to tingle between my legs. I didn't even notice it at first. I thought I'd never want a man again, but then you hugged me, and I wanted you."

"I saw you working your ass off for us before the battle, and I saw you fighting for us in the battle, and I saw you protecting us after the battle. And after that I _really_ wanted you. Every time I looked at you I started tingling between my legs again, I dunno, like an itch just urging and urging. I was so horny for you I went into a washroom a couple of times and rubbed myself off to get relief. And that's how I feel now, looking at you now. After all those years, I can feel desire again, and boy I'm feeling a lot of it right now!"

"So don't you dare tell me that I don't want you, partner!" she said sticking her face almost nose-to-nose with Pistor's, her fists on her hips, her lovely eyes blazing. "I want you, and that's something so special to me, you can't even imagine it! If you don't want to sleep with me, fine, but don't deny me my desire, and don't deny yourself yours! Do you understand me!?"

Pistor stared at her silently a moment. Then he wordlessly took Gina's face in his hands and kissed her. Her hands jerked spastically at her sides for a moment, causing the waistcoat to fall off her shoulders to the floor, and then her arms wrapped tight around him. Finally he broke the kiss.

"I do apologize, partner," said Pistor hoarsely. "I pray it doesn't bother you unduly to bend to kiss a short man."

Gerhardt answered by pulling him close and forcefully kissing him back, pressing her large, jutting breasts against him. He put his arms around her, slid his hands up the back of her dress to stroke and fondle her curvaceous bottom, slid his fingers lower to caress the soft wet lips between her thighs. She quickly spread her legs apart and arched her back, sticking out her bottom to fully expose her nether lips to his fingers.

"I can feel your hips trembling," he said after, squeezing her rear as it quivered under his touch. "Are you excited?"

"Excited?! I've never been so turned on in my life!" she hissed. The man knew what he was doing, and her body seemed to be making up for the last three frigid years all at once.

They barely made it to her quarters; Gina kept stopping repeatedly for more kissing and fondling on the way, and she got herself so fired up Pistor was at times wondering if she was going to rip his clothes off and jump his bones right there in the hall. Once inside her quarters, she really did start tearing off his clothing, and there was the inevitable pause when she got his pants down.

"Wow. This really doesn't belong on you," she said, quite befuddled by the enormous male organ jutting out of the small man. It seemed nearly the length and thickness of her forearm, straight as a ruler and hard as iron in her hands, with the hanging pouch stretched taut and bulging with broad heavy orbs. It was a little akin to seeing a toddler wielding a rocket launcher.

"I get that a lot," said Pistor, somewhat dryly. "As I have been so told, God took the inches that should have gone to my height and put them on my length instead. Do you like it?"

"Nah. It's too big. I don't like it when I can't get the whole thing in my mouth."

That didn't stop her from trying though, and to her credit, she managed to get a fair bit of it in. Pistor smiled, reached down and stroked her bobbing golden head, and let her run the show. They'd both been deprived a long time, but she was a far more passionate creature than he.

Eventually she stopped and pulled her flimsy dress over her head while Pistor was unbuttoning his shirt, and as he removed the last of his clothing, she went to her bunk and got on her hands and knees with her back to him.

"Get in the saddle, cowboy," she commanded, sticking out her shapely bottom at him and waiting expectantly. It wasn't the most romantic way to begin a relationship, but she rather doubted the man's great truncheon of a penis would fit inside her body any other way, and she was in no mood for gentleness. Scarcely able to believe it, Pistor got on his knees behind her and slid his hands over the plump, firm cheeks.

"This little filly wants to go for a ride, eh?" he asked. The woman playfully neighed like a horse and wiggled her rear in his stroking hands.

"Mount up, partner! I like to be ridden hard and put away wet!"

The merc was quite happy to obey. They groaned together as he pushed in, and Gina eagerly pushed back at him as he began squeezing his oversized organ into her body. He had little difficulty despite his size; the girl was so wet she could have taken an artillery shell. Pistor pushed in deeper and deeper till their bodies pressed firmly together, and he started grinding his hips against the woman's squirming bottom with great pleasure. He loved it when they weren't afraid of it, and he loved it even more when they were deep enough to take in the whole length of it. This one was a keeper.

Pistor started thrusting, steadily thumping his hips against his partner's bottom, holding her waist and gently pushing and pulling. He was loving every second, loving the feel of her around his shaft, of the sight of her swaying before him, of the sound of their bodies smacking rhythmically together. Anything would have been good after so many years of abstinence, even with a bored prostitute as he would have expected, but wild sex on all fours with a drop dead gorgeous blonde who cared about him and lusted madly for him? When had he ever been that lucky?

As much as Pistor was enjoying himself, Gina was loving it even more; she was so excited that her whole body was tingling, waves of sensation radiating from between her legs all throughout her skin. She could do nothing else but moan and sway, jabbing her rump back at his thrusts, writhing in his arms when he reached around her to stroke the front of her body. She could only hope he wouldn't think her some kind of wild slut, because right now, she was too riled up to stop.

They moved slowly at first then more and more vigorously, till the woman's buttocks were slapping furiously against Pistor's pumping hips. Gina writhed and thrust herself against the man behind her, secretly embarrassed that she was being so noisy and fervent, but he was prodding her to frenzy and she couldn't help herself. She felt like her body was on fire.

"I can't keep this up… much longer," the merc panted. He was amazed he lasted as long as he did, it was so good and it had been so long.

"Come for me Amon! Fill me up!" she hissed.

Clutching at her waist, Pistor drove his whole length all the way in and pressed his hips tightly against his partner's upturned bottom, and she felt long spurts of warmth inside her with each shudder of his muscled body. They both gasped and grunted as they spent together, then he reached around her and pulled her up with him as he sat on his heels, and languidly stroked her breasts and belly while they panted together and shared the afterglow.

"That was so beautiful… so special… oh God it was so good," panted Gina, reaching back to stroke his hair. "I came so many times… I wish I could make you… feel as good… as me."

Pistor just smiled and kept petting her while he caught his breath. The only possible way this experience could have been any better for him was if he had been losing his virginity in the process. When most of one's sexual fulfillment came from cheap whores, something genuine like this was a memory to treasure.

They slowly separated and collapsed onto the bunk, and the woman cuddled up to Pistor and fell asleep immediately. He gently caressed her and considered her words. He had triggered some sort of awakening in this traumatized girl, it seemed. He didn't know what to think of that, he was no healer. There must have been all kinds of passion bottled up in her just waiting to get out, and he had been the crack that broke the dam. So where did that leave him? Empty, cold, murdering, uncaring Amon Pistor?

Pistor looked at Gina's lovely face nestled into his chest and felt… an odd stirring deep in his chest. What was that? Did that mean something? He didn't even know, and he wondered to himself: could he really be a fulfilling lover to a young, beautiful, loving, passionate creature like her? It was unlikely; his coldness would make her drift away in time, he was sure. But in the meantime, let come what may.

As Pistor started drifting off himself, he distantly wondered if they could be effective partners and fervent lovers at the same time. He had no doubt of his own self-control, but he did not know about Gina Gerhardt. She was a very passionate woman, that was abundantly clear, and passion and professionalism did not coexist easily.

x x x x x

_**Weyland-Yutani terraforming colony "Threshold," central colony complex  
Level 9 north: personnel block, living quarters 9-43**_

Tristan O'Hara woke up in one of the nicest ways a man can wake: sandwiched spoon-style between two beautiful, naked young women, laying on his side with one in front and one behind him.

Well content, he snuggled there for a little while and caressed their soft bodies a while before finally admitting he wasn't about to fall back asleep. He carefully sat up so as not to wake them. His morning erection slid out from between the redhead's slender thighs and sprang up proudly against his belly, and he looked at it in surprise. After the workout it had been through last night, the thing had the nerve to look him in the eye next morning?

Carefully rising to keep from waking them, he looked around at the clothes scattered over the floor and realized that some of his clothes including his pants were in the bed under the women. Well that was all right. Harry swiped his hat off the floor and put it on. He had the piece that mattered.

There was still a couple of hours before his shift started. The days were long on this planet, thirty hours a cycle, and he still had a bit of rest period left over. Pops had them on a rotating schedule with one merc and one starship pilot always on active duty and no more than two mercs sleeping simultaneously.

Harry got busy at the kitchenette. There were a lot of unfamiliar foods he didn't recognize, fresh local stuff, but he knew pre-made flapjack mix when he saw it. He got the coffee machine going and started cooking. Least a gentleman could do would be to make his hostesses some breakfast.

The girls had been watching him from slitted eyes ever since he sat up, and Harry heard them when they started to giggle.

"Morning, ladies," he said cheerfully, turning to look at them. "What might it be that has you so amused?"

They giggled harder. He made a show of looking down at himself, then up at his hat, then winked at them.

"Oh that! Well, I guess a bloke wearing nothing but a cowboy hat cooking breakfast with a big old woody might look a tad out of place, wouldn't it," he grinned, and he put his hat aside. A man shouldn't be wearing a hat while cooking or eating anyway.

The smiling women looked at each other and played a quick game of rock-paper-scissors, and Harry noticed.

"You figuring out who's getting the first coffee?" he asked, as they both got up and came over to him.

"No, silly! We're seeing who gets _you_!" said Bettina in a 'well duh' manner, while Heidi squeezed between him and the cooking heater and squatted down in front of him.

"Keep cooking," ordered Heidi, then she took his rock-hard organ as deep into her mouth as she could.

"You didn't seriously think we were going to let a stiffy like that go to waste, did you?" said Bettina, stroking Harry's muscled rump as the merc let out a groan of intense pleasure.

"Well you see ma'am, if you do that, I can't concentrate on cooking for you," said Harry good-naturedly as shudders of sensation went through him. The blonde was the more voluptuous of the two, but as if to make up for it, redheaded Heidi was the more enthusiastic.

"That's okay, I'll help," said Bettina, enjoying the sight of him trying to cook while being pleasured. "You're sweet for doing this, but we're the ones going to take care of you and that's how it is, okay?"

"You'f dom sho much fo' ush alyeady," said Heidi, speaking around her mouthful, much to Harry's amusement. "Da leash we cam do ish take care o' you mow."

"Didn't anybody ever tell you not to talk with a full mouth?" chuckled Harry, tousling her bright crimson hair.

Heidi van Vehmendal was actually secretly shocked at her own behaviour. She had been shy and conservative beforehand, and was just learning how to enjoy lovemaking with her boyfriend when the pirates came and took all the men's lives. The intervening years had been filled with pining loneliness, and now, after the euphoria of the battle and the triumph of claiming perhaps the most handsome of the mercs, it was as though something had snapped inside her. She was feverishly horny, ready to do anything and wildly eager about it, and she was having explosive multiple orgasms for the first time in her life. She didn't care what anybody might think about her, didn't mind sharing Harry with another woman. She didn't even care if she got pregnant or not; if a baby was going to come, then let it come. All that mattered was this wonderful feeling, and Heidi was enjoying it so much she barely had time to wonder at herself.

The merc did his best to cook till he couldn't concentrate any more, then as Bettina took over, Heidi got up and bent over the sink for him, thrusting out her perky bottom expectantly. She was already lathered up and slippery between her thighs, easily yielding to his inserted finger, so Harry gladly took his place behind her and entered her immediately. He reached around to stroke her plump breasts as she lewdly rolled her bottom against his belly, and noted to himself that a man could happily get used to having a warm wriggly body in his arms and a snug, slick hole to thrust into on a regular basis.

That was the trap, he supposed, the velvet trap that they hoped would end his wandering days here on Sanjiva. Who knows, maybe it would catch him. The galactic fuel shortage could well turn out to be a permanent state, and if he had to be marooned, this was a pretty nice place to be marooned on.

The two enjoyed a brief but intense session while Bettina finished up cooking, then after a little wiping up the three sat down to breakfast. Harry listened to the girls banter with each other, enjoying their animated chatting and goofy little fights. At one point he broke in, curious about the greenish-tinged eggs that had been served.

"What kind of eggs are these? They're good, but they're not chicken."

"Ask the biologist," said Heidi, pointing to her roommate.

"There aren't any chickens or birds on Threshold," said Bettina. "We haven't gotten to that ecological stage yet."

"These are from an eel," Heidi broke in, unable to resist, giggling slightly at Harry's flabbergasted expression.

"A giant eel, Anguilla gigantis. It's genetically engineered to provide eggs and all kinds of meat. We call it the farmer eel," explained Bettina.

"You think the eggs are good, wait till you try the bacon," Heidi added.

"Are you sure you two aren't sisters?" asked Harry with a laugh.

"No, just good friends," said Bettina, smiling back.

"Why do you ask?" asked her roommate.

"The way you talk hither and thither and finish each other's sentences, you're almost like twins," said Harry. The smile abruptly dropped off his face. Now he'd done it. Made himself think about Liam again.

"Harry? What's wrong?" asked Heidi, noticing. Bettina, sitting beside him, looked at him in concern.

"Ah, well. Well," said Harry, clearing a throat that felt momentarily like it was full of gravel. "I was born a twin brother myself, truth be told. He popped out three minutes after me. My little brother and me, we used to talk back and forth like that too. He died a long time back, but I still miss him. I still feel him sometimes, you know?"

"Oh my God. I'm so sorry Harry," said Bettina, saddened, putting her arm around his side, and her roommate said much the same.

Heidi ran her hand through her crimson hair, than asked tentatively: "How did he die?"

"Heidi! Shut it!" said Bettina sharply.

"No it's all right. I like telling his story now and then. He died a hero, I'm hoping somebody remembers that after I'm gone," said Harry. "I gotta tell a bunch of my boring life story for it to make sense though, you up to hearing that?"

Both women nodded, eyes bright with curiousity. Harry smiled.

"Me and Liam were born in the core worlds, and we went to a private flight academy, a good one. We were in the top ten best graduates, the bugger beat me by one percent of a grade. We signed up as escort pilots for Weyland Yutani, and over time, we got to be the best there was at it."

"It's like we were psychic with each other, we knew exactly what the other was going to do and we had the best team tactics there was. The two of us could take on half a dozen bandits at once, and pick them off one by one while they didn't get a single hit. We had whole Company shipping divisions fighting over us for high risk convoys. Man, those were the days."

"Then the company decided they wanted more out of their top pilots, and we were assigned to active combat, attacking whatever the Company thought a threat. We were told we were going after weapon shipments, narcotics, terrorist cells, corporate espionage, that sort of thing. We knew most of that was hogwash, and the secrecy and massive paychecks proved it. But we were loyal Company employees, so we made ourselves believe the official line. We made like the employee motto, 'do what they tell you to do, and don't ask'. I can't even guess how many innocent people died because of us. We weren't protectors any more, we were paid killers."

"The last straw came when we got assigned to take out a passenger liner. They said it was a troop ship in disguise, but we knew for a fact it wasn't, just another ship full of a rival corporation's employees. We were done."

"Liam and I took all our money and our most important stuff, and we stole our favourite starfighters and made a run from the starbase we were stationed at. Our own teammates were scrambled to take us out. We couldn't bear to kill these guys who'd saved our asses so many times, so we just tried to run. I made it, he didn't. Liam took a missile meant for me. He was my little brother, I'd been watching out for him all our lives, and then at the end he gave his life to save me."

"I didn't try to blow the whistle on the Company, you know that never works. I just ran and kept running till I was outside of ICC space. I've been scratching out a living as a freelancer ever since, up until the fuel crisis put all of us spacers out of work. I've had a few wild adventures, but I've never been half the pilot I used to be with Liam on my wing, and I'll probably never be again. That's pretty much it."

"You know, this is the first time I've been on a company world in a long time. Hope you guys don't decide to cash in on the bounty," said Harry with a wink, breaking the somber mood.

The two women smiled, and Bettina lightly punched the merc's shoulder.

"All I know is that you're somebody who stopped the men who were hurting us, and you saved two hundred of us," said Heidi seriously. "You're a hero to us, and nothing else matters."

"And if your brother saved your life so you could do this, then he's as much a hero as you," added Bettina.

"It would warm his heart to hear that if he were here," said Harry fondly, then he gave the girls a sly look. "'Course, if he were here, he'd probably be too busy with you to notice. You know, me and my brother made an art out of going to bed together with one girl. We liked to take our time with them, and keep taking turns until they passed right out from the pleasure. We would have had a field day with you two."

The women looked at each other and shared a giggle.

"Well seeing as he's not here, maybe the two of us can make you pass out instead," said Heidi with a wicked grin.

"Much as I'd like that, I do have to be on duty in less than an hour," Harry pointed out. "Passing out would tend to interfere with my showing up on time."

"Ah hell. You two got me all worked up from watching you. I want my turn," groused Bettina, reaching under the table to fondle Harry's sex. She reacted with some amazement when she felt it swelling in her hand.

"Are you sure you didn't get the ardenol capsule implanted already?" she asked. "I've never been with a man who could get hard so many times naturally."

"It's been a long time," said Harry nonchalantly. "I've got a lot of juice backed up."

"Well let's see if I can relieve you of some," said the blonde woman suggestively.

As Heidi went off to take the first turn in the shower, Bettina led him to her unused bunk, and she sat down in front of him and vigorously sucked his half-swollen erection till it was fully stiff and serviceable again. Then she pulled him down atop her, wrapped her legs around his waist as he entered her. Harry kissed, sucked on, and lightly bit her breasts as he worked, and she arched her hips up at him and sighed with enjoyment.

Bettina Kupfer couldn't believe the lover they had found in this merc. He was skilled, and virile, and gentle, and unhurried, and there was nothing of the hungry uncaring urgency you'd expect from a wandering man. And he was good-looking, and a gentleman to boot - what a prize! He was like something out of a romance holo! She unashamedly loved having this vagabond prince atop her, or under her, or behind her, and all points in between, and the long years of abstinence and everything that had happened recently just made it all the more sweet. She would be proud to have this man's baby, and she wanted a baby so very badly. It rankled a bit to have to share him, but at least it was with her best friend, and if they hadn't coordinated they might very likely not have caught him at all.

As for Harry, well it hurt to think of his lost twin brother, but sometimes it was fun to remember the things they had done. One thing was certain; Liam would have a big smile on his face if he was here, and so would Harry when he showed up for work today.

x x x x x

_**Tapana Badlands west of Threshold community border  
Original base camp of the "Shadow Hearts" space raider clan**_

It had been a few days now. Pappagallo had wanted to scout the slaves' location sooner, but Pistor didn't have his summoning remote ready yet. Pistor was working like a dog, repairing colonial weapons and salvaged pirate weapons, redesigning Sanjivan manufacturing robots to build new weapons and ammunition, building spy cameras to install into the guide beacons throughout Threshold's canyons, and making the remote itself. He wouldn't have it ready for a few more days yet, and both Pops and Brinnlitz were getting impatient.

"Let's go alone, old man. You and me," Brinnlitz had suggested. "If all those colonists have these personal data transmitters implanted, we stand a chance of picking up the slave PDTs if we do a low search pattern. We have to scout them, right now. We need to know where they are, and whether they're starving, or guarded by the raiders, or…"

Brinnlitz left that unsaid, they both knew what he was talking about. They needed to know if the slaves had been attacked by big fleshy spiders. They needed to know if the slaves were even alive.

Pops narrowed the gain on his ship's sensor instruments and decreased altitude a little more. Their scout mission was underway, and had been for some time. It was still morning, but the sky was dark with storm clouds. Ionic interference was fouling up his instruments, and colonial PDTs had a low range to begin with.

"Not too low. Else the canyons themselves will start to block your reception," Brinnlitz advised from the copilot's chair, laying back seemingly idly with his feet up on the console.

"I know," said Pops irritably. This would have gone much better if he'd brought the other two starfighters along for a coordinated search, but stripping the colony of its air defense was utter folly. They would just have to do flybys of terrain suitable for a large camp, and hope for the best.

And, against all odds, that hope was borne out.

"There it is! There, yes!" Brinnlitz sat bolt upright in his chair and pointed to Pappagallo's readout. Through the static, there was a faint, flickering cluster of dots, and a corresponding beeping sound. They were almost on top of them.

"Got it! Marked!" said Pops with satisfaction. Their luck was continuing to hold. "Let's find somewhere to head down. The storm should have masked the sound of our jets."

"Not too close, old man! I need to reach them unseen!"

"Do I look like a greenhorn to you?"

"Just making sure. Early onset of senility could strike any time," deadpanned Brinnlitz as he unstrapped himself and got up to head to the loading bay.

"Yeah, yeah, go boil your shirt."

A rainstorm was starting to come down, much to Brinnlitz's pleasure. Rain would mask both the sound and the sight of his approach. Pappagallo brought the gunship down in a canyon several kilometers away, and still hovering at the top of the canyon, opened the loading ramp. A repaired pirate mini-skiff flew out and engaged turbojets immediately, and Brinnlitz pointed the skiff toward the campsite and glided forth, slowly and quietly.

"You sure you don't want me down there backing you up?" Pops radioed to him.

"None else on this planet save perhaps Kano has the stealth skills I require," Brinnlitz radioed back. "Besides, I work best alone. Find somewhere to put down and stay on station. I'll keep you posted."

The sniper flew until he was just barely in view of the enemy camp, and he landed on an adjacent cliff. From the telescopic lens on his rifle, he could see that the pirates had set their base on a large plateau, doubtless a good spot for aerovehicles taking off and landing. He could see the remains of an airfield, with a small control tower and landing area, exo-loaders, maintenance equipment and so forth. There were no vehicles or flyers present. Besides the airfield was that which he'd come for, the base camp itself. There were rows upon rows of sturdy prefabricated tents and one especially large tent, with supply containers all throughout. There wasn't anyone in view, although that was understandable with the heavy rain coming down.

No, wait. Brinnlitz turned his rifle sights to a sign of movement. There was a woman, lovely and dark-haired, wearing nothing but the slave collar on her neck. She was walking around a group of tents and checking inside, and the sniper watched on till he realized she was just circling and circling and checking the same tents. Her face was blank and her eyes half-closed and drugged-looking, and she was showing signs of malnourishment. It was a terribly pathetic sight. The merc's finger tightened on the trigger as he contemplated putting her out of her obvious misery, but he got control of himself with some effort. She was not his target.

There didn't seem to be any targets here for him though. He could see no sign of raiders. Brinnlitz switched to thermals and confirmed the presence of heat outlines in the tents, appearing mostly to be female. That wasn't good enough though. He needed to be absolutely sure that there weren't any hostiles among the slaves.

Brinnlitz took his mini-skiff and engaged the hoverjets, inching forward quietly for some twenty minutes till he had crossed the gulf to the plateau. He was flying at a level much lower than the top of the plateau, and he set down at a ledge he had previously marked during his survey. From there, he climbed his way up the cliff face with his rifle and equipment on his back, using only a pair of pitons to aid him. It was an easy climb to him, the rugged rock face presenting many handholds and footholds, made only a little more entertaining by the pouring rain making things slippery. He didn't think of the kilometers-long drop beneath his feat, indeed, he barely even noticed it.

He climbed onto the plateau and got going, readying his silenced pistol as he moved. Using the patches of giant ferns for cover, Brinnlitz approached the camp unheard and unseen. He cleared the airfield first; no one in the tower or among the equipment. Then he moved to his objective, the tents. He came to the first one and unfastened the entrance flap, and silently nudged the flap open with the long silencer on his pistol barrel. He confirmed: one scantily-clad collar-bound female slave, slightly malnourished, curled up in a foetal position on the bunk.

The soaking-wet sniper entered the tent and squatted beside the bunk to examine the former colonist. He froze, realizing that the woman's eyes were open, or rather half-open.

"Shh. I'm from Threshold. I'm a friend," he whispered to her, ready to grab her mouth of she tried to scream. "Can you understand me?"

Her eyes slowly widened and focused on him. "Master?" the woman asked hoarsely.

"No. A friend from Threshold," he told her. "I'm here to help you."

Her eyes slowly unfocused and returned to their half-open state; the green light on her collar flickered as it zapped her brain and spine with whatever neurostimulant charge it deemed appropriate. Brinnlitz sadly stroked her long blonde hair a moment, getting it out of her eyes. He was not immune to compassion.

"Don't worry love. We're coming back for you. You will be free again soon," he promised her. The woman made no reply.

Unfortunately, when her collar was removed, he knew she wouldn't be thanking them for it. It would be a long hard journey breaking her addiction to the stims and deprogramming her into a human being again. But it was better than the half-conscious non-life she was living now. It had to be done, it was the only thing that could be done. No one deserved to be caged. Especially not within their own minds.

The sniper's hand abruptly went still, in the vicinity of the woman's neck. Compassion warred with darker feelings within him. He could strangle this slave right here, right now. No one would know, no one would miss one more slave. Even if the body was found, it could well have been the pirates, who could say? Only he would know. It would be his own delicious secret. His hand drifted lower, and he could feel the blood throbbing in the woman's arteries. His mouth twisted, fighting not to smile. Oh dearie dear.

Moments later, Brinnlitz moved out, and began checking the tents one by one. The women all seemed to be somewhat malnourished, but they didn't seem dehydrated at least. He eventually finished his foray and was satisfied there were no hostiles present, and he radioed Pappagallo.

"Brinnlitz here. I've finished my sweep. I confirm no hostiles present. There's approximately forty women here, all reasonably healthy and mobile. They're not going anywhere though, their collars have them almost paralyzed. They're hydrated, but I don't think they're feeding themselves properly. We don't want to leave them out here too long."

"Roger that. Are you ready for pickup?"

"Affirm. You can come straight here to the airfield, there's… wait… standby."

Brinnlitz's razor-sharp senses had picked up something, and he wasn't sure what. He froze in place, holding his pistol at the ready. He stayed there, still as a statue, for a long moment. Then he heard it again, difficult to hear over the rain, just a sort of soft pattering behind him, like the scampering of a rat. He spun on the balls of his feet in an instant, making not a sound as he pointed his gun at… nothing. The sniper still wasn't entirely certain if it was just the rain he was hearing, but his instincts were warning him that something wasn't right. So, he silently moved in the direction where he thought he'd heard the sound emanate from, toward a nook between two tents.

It was dark in there, made worse by the rain and cloud cover, and he saw nothing in there when the lightning briefly flashed. Brinnlitz turned on both his infrared eyepatch and the small flashlight on his pistol and checked the gully again. Still nothing. He stayed there unmoving for a full minute, then two.

"Brinnlitz? What's your status?" came Pappagallo's voice in his wire headset.

"Nominal. Thought I heard something," said the sniper, slowly. "Come and pick me up at the airfield. And Pappagallo… Pistor needs to move his arse. These women would be completely defenseless if one of Kano's spiders strolled in."

"Roger that, _Ranger_ is inbound. This calling gadget will be Pistor's only project from now on, should shave off a few days. ETA to airfield is five minutes, see you there."

Brinnlitz made his way to the airfield. He really hadn't seen anything to put him on alert, but he kept his pistol ready and sneaked noiselessly to his destination, as though expecting hostiles around every corner. He trusted his instincts.

It was truly bothersome that the slaves had to be left here. The neural collars would immediately kill their wearers if they detected anything awry, so the mercs really had no choice but to leave them there until they had the pick for that particular lock. If it was up to him, he would stay behind to protect the women till their rescue, but he knew the old man. There was no way he would be allowed to stay out here alone and vulnerable for forty souls while there was a whole colony of over two hundred to defend.

All Brinnlitz could do was resolve to do a thorough headcount when the rescue took place, and trust the number wouldn't turn out to be zero.

x x x x x

_Author's Notes:_

_Hoo-boy. This is my first time publishing erotica, and man, I'm nervous. On the sliding scale between fluffy romance and gross porn, where does my flavour of sex fit in? Too anatomical? Too crude? Not enough tenderness? Not enough spice? Arrgh! I just hope the erotic element adds to my overall story and doesn't take away from it or (gulp) ruin it for readers. There's actually a scene with Pops and one with Kano as well (yes, you heard me, Kano), but I snipped those for the next chapter; this one was getting too long and too sex-heavy. Too much sex is just like too much action: it can cause burnout._

_This chapter is obviously where my story and that of The Magnificent Seven part ways. There's still going to be ongoing references to M7 and Seven Samurai, but the events from here on will be all of my own devising. Yeah, that's kind of nerve-racking too. They're biding their time, but expect to see more of the Xenomorphs next chapter. The pirates are almost done; the true enemy is about to reveal itself. Please read and review, and if it sucks, don't be too hard on me, okay? Enjoy!_

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